


Viridian Sky - Wyvern's Flight

by shadowshrike



Series: Emerald Moon AU [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Almyra (Fire Emblem), Fantastic Racism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, Politics, Sequel, Xenophobia, referenced dimitri/sylvain fwb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-01-20 23:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 67,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21289694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowshrike/pseuds/shadowshrike
Summary: Claude has returned to the country of his birth now that Fodlan's war has ended, but claiming the crown is not easy after six years away. With the help of another king, he dreams of a new Almyra.Sequel to Emerald Moon - Coalition of Deer and Lion, a VW/AM combined path fic
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Series: Emerald Moon AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1492904
Comments: 365
Kudos: 621





	1. Arrival in Almyra

**Author's Note:**

> It begins! A few quick notes about this sequel:
> 
> Due to the setting, the characters listed in the tags will be featured heavily (Claude, Dimitri, and Felix), while most others will only be mentioned since they're still in Fodlan. You can expect several original Almyran characters as the politics ramp up.
> 
> The PoV will alternate between Dimitri and Claude from chapter to chapter.
> 
> Although the story is not strictly a romance, the main ship will show up early and often as a focal point, especially on Dimitri's end.

Six months had passed since Claude left Fodlan. A fraction of a life that had somehow lasted lifetimes.

Treaties, rebellions, bigotry, reparations, and endless debates. Managing Faerghus since the war ended had felt like pruning an overgrown hedge with a boot knife. The worst looking limbs had been lopped off and bound into the shape Dimitri dreamed of for his country, but it would take years yet for the deadwood to be replaced by healthy greenery, and there was still a chance his haphazard cuts might kill what he’d started with. No amount of royal training could have prepared him for leading a country in this new political landscape. 

At least he was not out of his depth alone.

Dimitri’s eye drifted to the bow of the ship where his closest advisor, the recently coined ‘Sword of Faerghus’, was lost in thought. Felix had abandoned his fur-lined clothes for a sleeveless, belted surcoat more appropriate for the warmth of Almyra’s capital. The cool mist from their boat parting the waves didn’t seem to perturb him despite the bare skin of his arms. His hair was longer now than it had been during the war, its ponytail tossed like strands of ebony ribbon by the sea breeze driving them onward. 

Dimitri wished Ashe could have been here to see him. Felix looked like something right out of a storybook - a proud warrior with his majestic coat flapping in the wind and fierce eyes challenging the unknown waters ahead. The sight would have surely inspired the young lord to recite all his favorite tales about great knights and their sailing adventures. Dimitri could imagine the awestruck glint in Ashe’s eyes as he admired Felix, identical to the one he wore when the swordsman had decimated training dummies during their academy days. 

Adventure suited Felix. That was one reason why Dimitri had chosen him for this trip to visit the heart of Almyra despite Dedue’s repeated complaints about being left behind. The other reason was that the advisor needed an opportunity to forge his own path. Something more fulfilling than blind obedience to his heritage or railing against it. Spending time in Faerghus was an exercise in patience Felix didn’t have, especially when being talked down to by his father for not pursuing the Fraldarius dukedom. Rodrigue didn’t mean to be antagonizing, Dimitri was certain, but he also didn’t understand why an indolent man like Sylvain all but ripped Gautier’s power from his father’s hands when given the chance, while Felix still refused to return home, even after accepting a role as Dimitri’s advisor. 

The most Dimitri could do for the two of them was give them space to decide what they wanted. He was lucky that what he and Felix needed was the opposite. Though things had been better between them since they’d become king and advisor, the tension outside of their duties hadn’t dissipated. They could work together with the uncanny grace of two people who’d been born for one another, but they didn’t know how to talk about habits and hobbies in addition to politics anymore.

Dimitri hoped he could become Felix’s friend again one day. He still didn’t know how Felix felt about it.

There would be more than enough chances to bond once they arrived in Almyra. Thankfully, the trip there was not as long as Dimitri had feared when he’d realized they’d be forced to travel by boat. They’d originally intended to simply walk across Fodlan's Locket, but even with Hilda’s support, Holst wouldn’t permit Dimitri’s passage in the interest of not risking an international incident. The word of Almyrans meant little to those in Goneril territory. The Almyran crown prince’s written invitation wasn’t enough to convince Holst it was more than an elaborate ruse.

A ride to Derdriu and an audience with Lady Judith ended up the only way to find another path into Almyra. She’d offered them a small ship to cross the no man’s land between their nations, the crew made up of merchants who regularly traded with Almyra despite their tensions. Dimitri and Felix had set sail that morning with the expectation of arriving by evening, but not before receiving many warnings from Derdriu’s people about the underhanded, backstabbing beasts who lay across the sea. 

It took all of Dimitri’s willpower not to snap at them. He wanted to demand if they'd say the same to Claude's face, but that was out of the question. Only a select few knew the ex-Duke was half-Almyran, mostly Dimitri’s inner circle and the Golden Deer he’d stayed in contact with, and no one but Dimitri was privy to his status as the prince who had invited the King of Faerghus into his home for a week. Not even Felix. 

So Dimitri kept his mouth shut as he had when he was a child after learning the more he protested against Duscur’s treatment at every turn, the worse life got for Dedue. He had to pick his battles. Dimitri loathed hearing good men like Claude and Dedue be badmouthed because of unfounded prejudices, but he hated those good men suffering even more.

The cries of seagulls and hazy shoreline on the horizon heralded the end of their trip as the temperature began to drop with the falling sun. From here, with only the vague silhouette of land ahead of them, it felt impossible that this country would be so different from their own. Nature didn’t care for the borders that men made and warred over, or so Claude had once told Dimitri over a pot of chamomile tea while they discussed international politics in the library late at night. From this vantage point, Dimitri was beginning to see his meaning.

It wasn’t until the flat lines of sandy rooftops and colorful fabric overhangs materialized from the blurred shapes that Dimitri appreciated just how different this was from home. It was larger, for one thing. Though Fhirdiad would never be considered a small city, Pasar dwarfed it with an urban sprawl whose broad wings hugged the vast shoreline. The comparatively squat buildings raced off in every direction, the tallest of which flanked the major river that flowed through the heart of the city, lined with funny looking trees that only had leaves on the top like a man insecure about his thinning hair. Fishing ships and wyverns swarmed around the river’s mouth, the noisy bustle of their daily routine drowning out the seabird’s cries as the Alliance merchant ship neared one of Pasar’s many docks.

One fleet of wyverns broke away from their patrol to intercept the ship. Ridden by burly men who dangled long ropes with wicked hooks on the end, four hulking, sand-skinned beasts approached, at least twice the size of war wyverns in Fodlan. In front of them, an unmistakable flash of white dropped from the sky in an eye-catching stoop. Felix's mouth fell open as the oddly-colored wyvern hurtled towards them like a bolt of light, and Dimitri felt his own face mimic the shocked expression. 

Claude was dazzling. He’d traded the soft, boxy lines of Duke Riegan’s house for sleek fabrics and dangling baubles that draped daringly across his lithe yet solid frame. He was a creature of the wind, alluring and unfathomable all at once. It was as if the sun and moon had conceived a child together and named him prince of the heavens, claiming the sky upon a white star. His royal attire glowed in the light of Almyra's sunset, mimicking streaks of evening clouds that gleamed with the ruby and gold of a forbidden treasure trove.

Perhaps Dimitri would have felt less inadequate had he been able to greet Claude in luxurious furs and polished armor that made his long hair look like a lion's mane rather than the plain, silver-lined tunic and half-ponytail demanded by Almyra's inhospitable warmth.

Estera’s rider leaped from the saddle before she landed, his arrow-sharp smile piercing Dimitri’s breast without Claude needing to aim. The wyvern perched gracefully on the boat’s prow with spread wings, pretending to be an ivory figurehead while she basked in the flow of the wind.

Claude ran straight for Dimitri, ignoring the shocked shouts of the merchants and Felix’s exasperated glower. The king’s instinctive flinch against physical contact didn’t come. It never had with Claude.

There was a heart-pounding fraction of a second when Claude's arms embraced him as they had six months ago and he hopped up on his toes with a lifted chin and softly pursed lips, that Dimitri expected he was about to experience his first real kiss. But then Claude's lips ghosted next to his cheeks, and Dimitri, caught up in the dreams of his most pleasant sleepless nights, remembered this was how Almyrans said hello to good friends and family. The lingering heat of the day helped to hide his embarrassed flush, but there wasn't much he could do about his mouth gaping like a land-bound fish.

Claude’s disarming laughter washed away Dimitri’s shame. "Sorry, Your Kingliness. I forgot you don't do that in Faerghus. Didn't mean to startle you.”

His grin suggested not a single word of that was true. Even with the extra princely glamor, the fancy clothes, the restyled hair, and the armed entourage, Claude treated him with the same infuriating familiarity he always had. 

Matching his role in the old games they played, Dimitri responded with the measured grandeur of a king. "I would assume you were an imposter, trying to emulate my cherished friend if you did anything less. It is good to see you again, Prince Claude. Faerghus has been lonely without you."

Claude choked on nothing and Dimitri preened. He’d somehow scored a point in their very first friendly altercation. Still, Claude was never one to be down and out for long, especially not in a battle of words, so he’d need to savor the victory while it lasted.

"Come on now, don’t go bringing titles into this,” Claude complained, righting himself in their conversation as easily as he did tumbling through the air on his wyvern. He waved over his left shoulder. “Besides, it's rude to say Faerghus is lonely with your advisor right next to you, don’t you think?"

And Dimitri was right back to being on the defensive. In his excitement, the king had forgotten about Felix, a man who'd put aside years of hatred to stand by his side and reform Faerghus these past months while Claude was busy in Almyra. The same man who didn’t know anything about Claude's true identity despite Dimitri having known for months, something that was likely about to drive a new rift in their tentative relationship.

The apology couldn’t come fast enough. "Felix...I would have told you, but..."

“You can explain yourself later,” the swordsman interrupted. No longer gawking, Felix sauntered towards Claude with a cocked eyebrow Dimitri recognized as curiosity. Felix hummed, giving Claude a once over. "So I take it you're the crown prince of Almyra we're here to visit?” 

"The one and only.” 

Felix snorted. “Of course, Sylvain had to be right."

“Judging by that sour expression, you lost a bet?” Claude replied, smirking.

Felix huffed in annoyance, but a smile peeked around his frown. “It’s my own fault for agreeing to one with that idiot. I’ll deal with my loss when we return. I can’t say I was expecting to meet you again like this, but you’ve never been predictable. It’s good to see you’re well, Claude.”

“You, too, Felix.” The prince gave him a lopsided smile that echoed Sylvain’s. It was eerier than ever after so long apart. 

Dimitri cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about getting down to business when we have so much to catch up on, but the sun is already setting. I assume there is travel yet for us to reach our accommodations for the evening.”

“Don’t worry about that. These guys will be doing the heavy lifting.” Claude jammed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the oversized wyverns who were now hovering by the sides of the ship. The long, hooked ropes were being lashed to their vessel.

“What are they? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Draft Wyverns. They’re too graceless to be much use in a fight, but they’re champs at hauling heavy supplies. They’re also the only way to get your ship upstream to the palace.”

Those were towlines, Dimitri realized belatedly as the wyverns established a new formation. He hadn’t noticed before that the river flowed out to sea here, making it impossible to approach the city center without the aid of mechanical force. Faerghus preferred to build their castles on mountains to protect them, but this was a defensible choice for a coastal capital, Dimitri supposed.

“So we’re headed directly for the palace?” the king wondered aloud. He’d expected a detour through town first with how much Claude had advertised the unique cuisine and art of Almyra.

“That’s the idea unless you were planning to stay in the stables,” Claude replied with a wink. The ship jolted sharply against the river’s current with the strength of four enormous wyverns dragging it out front. It felt like they were riding a sea chariot out of a mariner’s fairytale. “I’ve got a few other things to take care of tonight, but I’ll take you to your beds and my friends will make sure the rest of your crew is taken care of.”

Felix’s brow pinched. “We won’t be greeting the king and queen?”

“At this hour that’s the last thing you want to do,” Claude assured him. “Just relax for tonight, and we’ll come to get you when they’re ready tomorrow morning. Enjoy the view. I know I am.”

Dimitri didn’t dare look to see if that emerald gaze lingered on him as he said it.

Thankfully, there was more than enough scenery to distract them on the journey. The river’s mouth may have been wide and surrounded by commonplace residential buildings, but the deeper they traveled into Pasar, the narrower yet grander their passage became. Stone arches spanned the river and marked the entrance to the outer castle, a fanged portcullis hanging over their heads as their ship was dragged through. 

The greenery inside was breathtaking. Dimitri had read about it in the few books he was able to dig up about Almyran culture. ‘Paradise Gardens’ they had been called, a handpicked expanse of flowering plants designed to harness the light and cultivate one’s spirit. Even with the red cast of the setting sun washing out the color of its blooms, the texture alone could captivate an artist’s imagination. If this is where Claude grew up, it was no wonder he was so fond of poetry.

Dedue would need to see this one day. Although the sight of Pasar’s beautiful gardens rendered Dimitri speechless, he suspected the true splendor of such tenderly raised plants was lost on anyone who didn’t have a green thumb.

By the time they at last docked within the palace itself, Dimitri was so awestruck by the new sights and sounds that he almost missed Claude’s gesture to follow him off the ship and towards their rooms.

“Sorry I can’t stick around long tonight,” he was saying. “But I’ve got a few things I need to take care of. You’ll see some wet strips of cloth hanging in your rooms. Don’t pull those down, they’re to keep the space cool enough that even hot-blooded Faerghus nobles like you two can sleep. Make yourselves comfortable, and we’ll catch up in the morning, alright?”

Dimitri clenched his fist to keep himself from reaching out after Claude. The enormity of his desire to spend time together hadn’t fully manifested until the threat of parting loomed again, if only for an evening. He willfully steadied his breathing. “I look forward to it. It’s good to see you again, Claude.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Dimitri.” The prince flashed a heartstopping smile, then vanished into the labyrinth of the palace outside of their rooms.

Goddess, the rush he got from hearing Claude utter his name again felt like a sin on par with the five years of atrocities that had doomed his soul to the eternal flames.

_ “You’re disgusting, boar. You’re supposed to be on a diplomatic mission, but all you can think of is rutting with that stag.”  _ Dimitri refused to listen to the taunting of Glenn’s phantom.

When he stepped into his room, Felix was glaring at the large mirror inside as if his reflection had insulted him. “I don’t like this place,” he stated.

Dimitri sighed. He should have anticipated that Felix wouldn’t appreciate a long journey without an opportunity to draw his sword or at least study Almyra’s weaponry. Still, couldn’t he reserve his judgment for at least one day?

“There is supposedly tournament fighting in the festival we’re attending this week, and Claude assured me you could participate. Give it a chance. You’ve barely even seen Almyra,” Dimitri reminded him gently.

“Exactly,” Felix growled in the put upon manner he did whenever he felt like his king was being dense, a tone Dimitri was unfortunately well-acquainted with. “They took us directly from the dock to our rooms without talking to anyone, even though this is a diplomatic mission. There’s something Claude doesn’t want us to see here.”

“I’ll admit, it is odd that we haven’t had even a brief tour after coming all this way,” Dimitri hedged. 

It was late, yes, but in Fhirdiad Dimitri regularly greeted guests even after the moon had risen for several hours. As much as he wanted to believe this was merely a cultural difference between their nations, Claude’s hasty retreat didn’t inspire confidence. He’d suspected from the clipped tone of the Almyran prince’s latest letters that their visit was more contentious than Claude wanted to let on. 

“Are you going to do anything about it?” Felix demanded. 

Dimitri weighed his trust in Claude against his own curiosity. “Not yet.”

A fierce glare came from Felix’s direction, and for a moment Dimitri thought he was about to get an earful about what a naive boar he was. Then the swordsman turned his back. “I’ll be waiting for you when the sun rises. Don’t sleep in.”

"Thank you for coming, Felix.”

There was an awkward pause where his advisor searched for the right words. Felix had been doing that often ever since they retook Fhirdiad. Dimitri wondered what it would be this time. 'Someone needs to keep an eye on you', maybe? Or 'Better here than at home'?

"You're welcome," Felix said at last.

Dimitri frowned as he left the room, taken aback by the pit in his stomach that followed. It was the same feeling he got when he overheard Sylvain lying to another unfortunate woman who thought she could change him. Dimitri would rather have Felix's wrath than his insincerity. The more he tempered his words, trying to be respectful, the more Dimitri felt like he was losing his oldest friend.

It wasn’t worth dwelling on tonight. With the unique cooling system in his room and everything but his pants stripped away, sleep came sooner than Dimitri had expected. A full day of boat travel was the best cure for his chronic insomnia he’d found other than Mercedes’ sleeping draught. Even the excitement of seeing Claude again and the well-honed fear of sleeping alone in a new place accompanied by the paranoid whispers of his mind couldn’t overcome the exhaustion of rocking on waves for so many hours.

When he came to the next day, it was with sunlight suddenly cutting into his eye.

“You’re late,” Felix informed him, fists tight around the drawn curtains.

Dimitri groaned, throwing an arm up to block the bright rays. “How long have you been up?”

“Long enough to get impatient with your slacking.” That was Felix for ‘about an hour before I got bored without training to do or Sylvain to bother’. He did a masterful impression of Dedue like this, looming over Dimitri’s bed with the scorn of a disapproving mother.

“Right. My apologies. Give me a moment and I’ll be with you, alright?” the king muttered, knocking off the covers. 

Felix’s eyes dipped across the field of scars bared by the gesture and scoffed. “Get dressed. I’ll be outside your door.”

By the time Dimitri had finished his morning routine, pulling back his hair, carefully lacing and tucking his tunic to hide the worst of his disfigurement, and affixing the new breathable eyepatch that he’d commissioned for this journey, Felix was pacing in tight circles in front of his door like a show cat new to its cage. He didn’t wait for a morning greeting before taking off, assuming correctly that Dimitri would follow.

“I had intended to wait for Claude. Where are we headed?” the king asked, long strides making it easy to keep up with Felix’s quick pace.

Dimitri wished he could stop to admire the intricate inlaid stonework that crawled across the walls and vaulted ceilings in huge blocks like a manicured Adrestrian garden. He’d never been much for interior design, the pursuit too filled with delicate filigree and too devoid of action for him to feel comfortable with it, but there was something about such ornate patterns being part of a sturdier whole that fascinated the king. It reminded him of Claude in a way - strong enough to hold his own against any opponent, but still given to style and flights of fancy. Maybe the prince would give him an Almyran architecture lesson later.

“Outside,” Felix answered sharply. “I’m tired of staying tethered to our room, waiting for that lazy dolt to get out of bed.”

“That is not an appropriate way to speak of our host,” Dimitri scolded. He wished he could disagree with the assessment that waiting for Claude before exploring would mean several hours of nothing to do but stare out the window of their rooms.

“Hold.”

The pair halted as a guard turned the corner in front of them, brandishing his axe in a vaguely threatening motion. He wore little armor and stood barely taller than Felix, but his scarred face and barrel chest would be terrifying to most men.

Felix and Dimitri were not most men.

The Kingdom advisor stepped forward, his face screwed up in an unimpressed scowl. “Let us pass. The King of Faerghus will not be detained.”

“Fodlan royalty holds no authority in these halls,” the guard stated. His grip on the axe tightened. “Go back to your beds. It’s too dangerous for lambs like you to wander about without the prince’s protection.”

Teeth grinding and lightning crackling under his skin, Felix took another step forward. “You think we’re lambs? I’d be happy to demonstrate why the warriors of Faerghus are called lions.”

“Felix,” Dimitri warned. He would have laid a hand on his advisor’s shoulder if he didn’t think that would only further incite the man’s rage.

The guard showed his teeth, more a baring of fangs than a smile. “You should listen to your king. He knows his limits.”

“You think my king is a coward when you’ve never faced war at your doorstep,” Felix sneered. “If you believe you’re stronger than us, you can prove it. Or are you just a coward with a big mouth?”

Felix tried to sidestep the human-shaped obstacle in his way but found himself face-to-face with the leathery skin of a seasoned warrior as the guard mirrored his movements. “I won’t say it again, lost lamb. You must stay here until the prince arrives.”

“Get out of my way.”

Dimitri tried to interject, “Felix, we are guests.”

“Guests, not prisoners. I won’t let Faerghus be disrespected by letting them chain us up like dogs.” He raised his chin, glaring at the guard. “I will only ask one more time. Move or face me in combat.”

The other man didn’t answer, standing firm.

“Then we’re doing this the hard way.”

Felix’s fist connected with the guard’s face before he could raise his weapon.

Dimitri was starting to wonder if bringing his advisor had been a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some amazing fanart for this chapter was created by @vanillatales:
> 
> [Claude in Almyran silks](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8bVfL7n_xW/?igshid=bls2scjj3rux)  
Claude's greeting


	2. The Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude talks with his parents about the arrival of Dimitri and Felix. The pair are welcomed to Almyra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note that the tags have been updated to include Xenophobia/Fantasy Racism. It's subdued in this chapter but will start coming up more often from this point onwards, so if that topic makes you uncomfortable, please read with caution.

Claude knew three things for certain:

First, that his parents had never used their power as king and queen to help him with anything in his life, and they weren't about to start now. The closest Almyra had come to hosting a foreign head of state in recent history was when his mother visited from Fodlan over twenty years ago, intending to marry the king. Even with his father’s blessing, she was forced to renounce her claim to the Alliance upon her arrival, fighting her way through the Pit to prove her husband-to-be wasn’t unfit to rule for choosing her as a wife. If Claude wanted to keep what reputation he'd cobbled together as a wartime leader intact, he couldn’t expect special favors from his parents to welcome his friends.

The second thing Claude knew was that his guests from Faerghus already looked weak for having cooling strips in their rooms during one of Almyra’s more temperate months. Only the elderly and infirm were fragile enough to need pampering when it was mild enough to train midday without passing out. Going through extra effort to pander to the soft, foreign guests of their half-blood prince was sure to sour the local guards on Fodlan warriors before they even stepped foot in their rooms.

Finally, he knew that given thing one and thing two, it was only a matter of time before somebody snapped. If Claude could control when and where that happened, he would have the perfect stage to showcase the power of Faerghus. Their backing was essential to secure the crown, and with it, Almyra's future with Fodlan.

That was why he took his friends through empty corridors and left them in equally empty rooms with nothing to do, despite no urgent business elsewhere in the palace. He’d rather have traded stories about the last six months with friendly faces until the first fingers of dawn stretched through the palace windows, but Dimitri and Felix needed their rest, even if they didn’t know why yet. Claude’s only stop that night was by the guardhouse, letting them know the two Fodlan men were not to leave the premises until he returned. He didn't need them getting into a brawl in the streets, or worse, to face assassination attempts where Claude couldn't find them.

The prince returned to his sparse quarters to spend the evening hours doing his least favorite part of any plan. Waiting.

Claude lit a small terracotta lamp on his desk, retrieving a handful of papers from beneath the stone vase in the corner of his room. The boy he paid to discreetly deliver letters across Fodlan's Locket had arrived that morning after two long weeks of silence. There had been no time to read the contents until now, which included three new messages from the Alliance and one from Sylvain. Seeing a letter with Holst’s personal seal in the pile, Claude's heart thudded in his throat as popped off the wax with his knife.

Until today, no one in Fodlan but Dimitri was supposed to know about his identity as Almyra’s prince. Few had even pieced together that he was part Almyran at all. Still, every time Claude heard from Holst, which had only been twice during his six-month absence, he feared that the too-honest king of Faerghus had let his secret slip and he’d be reading a written declaration of personal betrayal and war.

A baseless fear, as Felix's surprise proved today. Dimitri’s earnestness concealed a knack for deception that was easy to misread when placed next to inherently shifty people like Claude.

Thankfully, the messages from Fodlan were once again innocuous despite their lateness. 

Holst’s chaotic script asked if there was an easier way to deliver the letters (the answer was no). He talked about his love for his sister, too, which was probably meant as a backhanded warning to keep replying to her letters. Claude chuckled as he refolded the paper; no one could outrun Holst's protectiveness, not even in another country.

Lorenz's letter was next in the stack and written with a steady, elegant hand. He bragged about all the former Imperial territories pledging to House Gloucester, an unsurprising development given his father's allegiances and their proximity to the border. He continued by expressing concerns about Judith still running House Riegan after six months, taking a few swipes at Claude’s pride for shirking his noble responsibility by renouncing his title. Or at least, Claude assumed it was supposed to be wounding - his flowery language made it sound more like Lorenz was a spurned lover than an annoyed companion, which Claude fully intended to tell the blue-blood in his return post. The letter closed with a heartfelt inquiry into how the ex-Duke was doing in the savage land of Almyra. 

Claude closed his eyes and breathed. They didn't know better, he reminded himself. To them, Almyra was still a land of bloodthirsty monsters. He could fix it. He just had to be patient.

That didn't mean his heart appreciated the unexpected beating. In an act of cowardice that his peers would have mocked him for, Claude set aside Hilda's letter alongside Lorenz's without opening it, too aware of what well-meaning disrespect might lay within. He didn’t need to work himself up with a delicate operation ahead of himself tomorrow.

Claude reached for the comfort of Sylvain's missive instead. Somehow, purposefully building a terrible reputation had given the new Margrave a knack for avoiding prejudice in how he talked to others, providing they weren’t one of his conquests. Or maybe that's just who Sylvain was a person. Opening Gautier's seal, Claude set aside the page with their chess game, retrieving the actual letter beneath to calm his mind. 

He smiled at Sylvain's well-formed but slightly crooked script, the handwriting of a man who'd spent his entire life in etiquette lessons that he self-sabotaged at every turn. It started with factual news about life in Faerghus, everything from his dealings with Sreng to the ongoing work of Ashe, Dedue, and Ingrid to restore Duscur and house those who were willing to take the Kingdom's aid. From there, the letter devolved into scandals and gossip. Even Margraves were subject to death threats when they broke a girl's heart, apparently, but most of the buzz was about Dimitri and Felix taking their trip to meet Almyra’s prince.

_ Take care of those stubborn blockheads for me _ , Sylvain had written at the end, like he somehow knew the mysterious Almyran official they were going to visit was Claude, a theory that Felix’s apparent bet supported. Claude was grateful Sylvain wasn't a political enemy.

By the time Claude finished skimming the Margrave’s message, the faint light of his lamp couldn’t keep the evening chill from his fingertips. He refolded the letter with aching hands, pressing it and the three others into a boring book about goat welfare that no one had read in fifteen years. That book was then tucked into a random shelf on one of his four bookcases to keep it from prying eyes. 

Responding and burning the evidence of their correspondences would wait for another time. He had a date he couldn't miss in the morning. 

Sleep came quickly but restlessly under the new moon.

When he woke the next day, the sun had just begun to break the horizon, winged silhouettes of the changing guard barely visible against the dark sky. If their sleep schedules hadn’t changed since the war, Felix and Dimitri would be up soon, assuming either of them slept at all. Claude threw on something semi-formal to make his visit. It was enough to convey his respect and maybe even turn some heads, but not so much that it would be difficult to remove a few layers for riding or add armor should today end in a trial by combat. He finished the outfit with his dagger, tucking it at his waist on his way out the door before any attendants could ask questions about where he was going.

Claude should have anticipated his mother would get in his way somehow. Whether she was bored or just missed her son, he felt like he'd been tripping over her at every turn these past months, like an overzealous puppy trying to help its owner. It drove Claude batty. His time as the solitary Duke Riegan had left him unused to a curious parent hovering over his shoulder whenever he stayed in the palace.

She found him not twenty paces from his door, as if she’d been lying in wait, and immediately started following Claude with a cheerful hello. They walked side-by-side towards the guest wing, Almyra’s yellow dawn bathing the vaulted corridors in golden light.

"So I finally get to meet the man who stole my boy's heart. I hope he’s worth all this trouble," the queen cooed. When people said Claude had an infuriating smile, he always silently blamed his mother for it.

The prince toyed with his newly regrown braid. It was an old habit that used to get him scolded for not sitting still when his elders were talking. "Sorry, mom, but I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Ha! You say that like you haven't been yammering on about him for months.” She barked a laugh more like a hyena’s cackle than a queen. “Dimitri this, Dimitri that. It doesn't matter how long you spend away from me, you can't hide these things from your mother."

Claude sighed and lied through his teeth like his parents had taught him. "It's not like that. Of course, I talk about him - we led a war together. I didn’t bring him here for a date. He’s here because he’s the strongest warrior I know, and Almyra needs proof that Fodlan blood doesn't make you weak. I can’t go taking dad’s seat unless people think I’m capable."

The sprinkling of truth did little to sway his mother. "You sound just like your father. And not in a good way. You both get so wrapped up in your grand plans, you think you can ignore everything else that goes on in that pea-sized brain of yours.” She rapped him on the skull to emphasize her point. “Do you know how long it took for him to realize he loved me because he was too busy with politics? He nearly got his hand lopped off because he was staring, and he still didn’t ask me for a single date!"

"You've told me many times," Claude groaned.

"Then you should listen! You're a clever boy, but you have to be honest about what you want,” his mother chided, long amber locks bouncing on her shoulders as she shook her head. “Deny your heart and you can be sure your enemies will break it."

Claude's hand sought the comfort of his dagger in his sash, thumbing over the two hidden lengths of string recently tied to the hilt. She was right that the world already had enough weapons to use against him without him ignoring whatever had sprouted between him and Dimitri during the war. Their budding relationship had haunted Claude for months. The way his heart raced whenever he received something from the king, whether it was news of Fodlan or whatever small piece of Almyran culture he’d unearthed. His inability to burn Dimitri’s letters with the rest, keeping them locked away in the false bottom of his dresser drawer instead. His pleasant dreams, too, once only of a world that accepted him, now plagued by the warm laughter of a voice unused to mirth and a fur-lined embrace that felt like home. 

Claude wasn’t one for lying to himself. He knew he would never forget the desperate longing of their farewell in Derdriu six months ago.

But it was better if his mom and everyone else thought he had. Better to be the scheming son of an Almyran King than the soft-hearted progeny of Fodlan's greatest romantic. He released his hold on the dagger. He could be patient a little longer, until the crown was his, and then he could redefine bravery and strength along the path his mother paved for him.

“Don’t worry about me so much, mom. I wouldn’t want our beautiful queen giving herself wrinkles early,” Claude replied with a cheeky wink he'd copied from her growing up.

The queen rolled her eyes. Her snide reply was drowned out by the crack of a fist hitting a jaw further down the hall. 

If Claude was right about who was punching whom at this hour, that sound was brutal confirmation that Claude had made the right choice in pushing Dimitri to bring Felix to Almyra rather than Dedue.

Claude held nothing against the man from Duscur. Dedue had the kind of build Almyrans wrote poetry about: a tower of muscle so tall he could tear open the sky. But where Dedue was soft-spoken and prideless, Felix embodied the ferity of Almyra's spirit. The swordsman oozed independence and readiness to throw down the gauntlet (or throw it at someone's face) to prove who was strongest. He wanted to win, but he wouldn’t let losing break him. That spunk was necessary to change minds about the cowardice of Fodlan warriors.

Claude rounded the corner to the sight of a guard staggering from a fist to the face. "I get held up for half an hour and you're already picking fights,” he sighed. 

The prince’s grin made it impossible to take his rebuke seriously. Or it should have, but ever-serious Dimitri yanked Felix away from the guard with one hand, causing his advisor to stumble and slap his king's arm away. Dimitri bowed far deeper than he needed to considering his station, assuming his station held any weight in Almyra at all. Felix stayed upright.

"Claude! And Queen Isabella! My deepest apologies for what has transpired. Please, do not believe we are ungrateful for your hospitality,” Dimitri asserted. He nudged Felix to do the same.

The advisor’s eyes narrowed, first at Dimitri for touching him and then directly at Claude. He lifted his chin towards the man he’d just decked. "This fool wouldn't let us stretch our legs without you playing watchdog. If you don't want your guards getting punched, you should teach them to respect your guests."

Eyes twinkling in the dawn’s gold rays, Claude laughed, "Looks like you beat me to it. You really laid into him, didn’t you? I don’t think he’ll forget to treat you with more respect after that kind of hit.” If the guard hadn’t been one of the ones who called his mother a coward behind her back, Claude might have felt guilty for how he nursed his bruised jaw considering Claude had been the one who gave the order that Dimitri and Felix couldn’t leave. “What do you think, mom?"

Isabella’s green eyes flicked between the four men, contemplating. Claude wished he could guess what she was thinking, but his mom’s poker face was only second to his father’s. 

Isabella eventually broke the silence with the authority of a hardened warrior queen. "I think this behavior will continue until they prove themselves." She pointed towards the palace guard, who was keeping one eye on his royalty and one on the man who just punched him. "You. You’re relieved of your post today. Take care of that jaw before it bruises.” The guard frowned but nodded, throwing a fist over his heart and retreating immediately. “Claude, take the two of them to the Pit. Teach them the rules. I will retrieve the king to welcome them to Almyra before we have another  _ incident _ .” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Claude replied. He ignored the raised eyebrows from his guests.

"Good." Nodding a brief approval, Isabella whirled on her heel to leave, her voluminous hair fanning out in a dramatic wave. She paused to glance at the pair of outsiders over her shoulder, cool demeanor completely at odds with the excited gushing she'd been doing about meeting Dimitri only minutes earlier. “My son might approve of you, but if you two want to stay, you'd better be half as strong as your parents were."

Dimitri blinked twice at her retreating back, trying to make sense of what had just happened. "What…? Our parents? Oh, I'd forgotten your mother must have gone to Garreg Mach around the same time as my father and Felix's..."

"Stop getting distracted,” Felix grumbled. “She didn't sound thrilled about us being here. If we're going to a pit, it must be to fight. Your hospitality is lacking once again, Claude."

The prince nervously ruffled his hair with an apologetic smile, looking more like a student again than the leader he was. Claude knew his mom was only acting so icy to test them, but he couldn’t speak up about it until they’d finish their trial, lest he gets in trouble with her, too. "Yeah, sorry about that. I was expecting a little more lead time before we started in with the hurty Almyran traditions. My mom’s right, though. You’ll have an easier time exploring Almyra once you’ve gone a round in the Pit. It’s a rite of passage thing."

"Don't trouble yourself over it," Dimitri said. His gentle smile glowed as brightly as the halo of his hair in the morning light. "We'll have adequate time to speak later. Besides, Felix and I have never backed down from a good-natured spar."

"This isn't exactly a spar. Not like the one I invited you for later this week," Claude explained. "It's a wrestling match to prove I'm not inviting cowards into the country. Now, normally I'd say this isn't about winning since Almyra values grit more than victory, but with you both being from Fodlan and our tense relationship with Leicester…” He laughed uneasily. “I recommend you win."

"As if we'd do anything less," Felix scoffed.

Dimitri grunted an affirmative. “We won’t disappoint you.”

"Reliable as always." Claude chuckled, the tightness of his chest easing. “In any case, this sort of welcome match is pretty simple. The first person to get their opponent on their back wins. No weapons, no hair pulling, no strikes, and try not to kill anyone, alright?”

Dimitri’s fingers rubbed at his smooth chin, and Claude's gaze was drawn to his hands. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Faerghus’ king without gauntlets or gloves.

“That’s it?” Dimitri asked.

Claude shrugged. “That’s the most important stuff. They’ll feed you before you go out. Don’t want anyone collapsing from an empty stomach. I’ll be cheering you on with my parents from the royal box.”

Dimitri nodded and Felix huffed but mirrored him. “Very well. We will prove ourselves worthy allies to Almyra and to you. Lead the way, Claude.”

The pit wasn’t far. Thanks to the arena's sheer size, it had to be built near the palace's center and acted as the metaphorical heart of Almyra whose arteries led to all the other wings of the palace. The pit was also adjacent to the stables and wyvern aerie with a path that wound through three layers of gates to the rest of Pasar for easy access when official tournaments were held. 

Claude smiled at the awed whispers of his companions when they arrived. Faerghus' training grounds were impressive, but not even they had an amphitheater like this. Looking up revealed a clear view of the brightening sky overhead, while sand-colored columns the size of Almyra's most ancient trees held aloft three tiers of seating that had bright banners splayed across every balcony. Far above was the royal box Claude and his parents would be in to watch the proceedings while seated upon ornate chairs lined in forest green brocade. Almyra's flag, a muted fabric sporting a mounted bowman embroidered upon it with gilded thread, had been draped from the precipice.

Unable to go into where the gladiators prepared since he wasn't part of the contest today, Claude left his companions in the capable hands of an old attendant who'd given up on her own fighting days but often assisted Claude as a child. She would make sure the pair were treated fairly. Another attendant handed Claude a noa fruit as he wished them luck, and they disappeared beneath the arena. Unable to do anything more for now, Claude bit into the sweet fruit with a muffled thank you and headed off alone towards the royal box.

Claude's father fell into step with his son as he reached the second flight of stairs, having come from another direction. The two men’s heights and builds were nearly identical, but Claude still felt small next to his old man. Unlike his mom, the king didn't spend much time with his son unless it was to teach Claude something about being king. He hadn't said much at all after welcoming Claude home six months ago.

Sneaking a fidgety glance at his father, Claude spotted a few gray hairs peeking through the other man's dark beard and braid tied off in red over his ear. No one would dare call the king old to his face, but every day he looked more like a wolf going gray around the muzzle, ready to leave the pack he'd guarded for years to another younger and stronger contender. Claude was determined to be the next in line, no matter what his father thought of his chances.

The king caught him staring and stared back with the steadiness of the earth. “Your mother tells me your guests have already picked a fight, and they haven’t even been here a day.”

“Technically, I think the other guy picked the fight," Claude muttered. 

He dropped his eyes. After all these years, matching his old man head-on still felt like he was a summer breeze trying to wash away a sand dune.

His father snorted in disappointment at someone. “That doesn’t surprise me. And you believe they can hold their own in the ring?”

“I’d stake my reputation on it," Claude stated.

The king stopped walking. Claude stopped as well, gritting his teeth while the weight of Almyra's judgment bore down upon him.

He had to be strong. The little boy who cried when he thought he would never be a Barbarossa because he wasn’t Almyran enough needed him to. The young man who ran from this life in the dead of night to find a home where he belonged needed him to. Every other person who suffered from this divided world but had no power to change it needed him to.

Emerald eyes that cut with the ferocity of a gale challenged the current king's stony gaze.

“I  _ will _ stake my reputation on it,” Claude said, firmly.

“Good,” his father replied. “Because your future and that of Almyra depends on this.”

The wind of defiance rushed out from Claude's sails when the king gave a single nod and turned away, leaving him cold and weak. His mother patted her son on the shoulder as she walked past. 

Nerve-wracking as it was, there was no time to worry about the outcome with the game about to begin. He would have faith in his friends instead. Dimitri had shown him how during the war, though the anxiety of having no control still clogged Claude’s lungs when he thought about it too long. Claude joined his parents, taking the seat to his mother's right instead of the empty one on his father's other side. They observed from far above as the gladiators filed into the arena. 

Each combatant wore leather as a second skin to offer protection while in the ring, most of the men forgoing shirts entirely as customary in events like this. Warriors wanted to showcase their tenacity by revealing bodies that had been broken and mended in the heat of battle dozens of times. Felix and Dimitri, who were brought forward last, had been lent proper clothing for the occasion to match the others. Having survived a five-year war, they were no less scarred than then men they stood beside.

Claude feared how quickly their pale skin would burn, light complexions nearly blinding under the rising sun. That was a safer thing to think about than the striking trimness of Dimitri's waist compared to his potential Almyran opponents or wondering how Felix got an angry, starburst-shaped discoloration on his right shoulder blade that stood out from the slices that crisscrossed the rest of his body.

Claude's father stood, spreading his arms when the men had assembled. “Greetings, warriors of Faerghus. I am Cyrus the Indomitable, King of Almyra. My son informs me you wish to prove yourselves worthy of setting foot on our lands. I assume he has explained to you the rules of the Pit?”

Felix looked to Dimitri, who stepped forward. “He has. And my advisor has volunteered to fight first.”

No names yet. Good. Dimitri had remembered Claude's written instructions before the trip that until he was asked for it, he shouldn't volunteer that information. Names had to be earned.

Cyrus seemed equally pleased by the other king's manners, his frown lifting to a neutral line. “Very well. Farbod, you will be the man’s opponent. You may begin whenever you're ready.” 

One of the mid-sized gladiators put his hand to his chest as the others vacated the arena, Dimitri tagging along to watch the match. Farbod had a few centimeters on Felix, but his torso seemed twice as wide and his stance was known for being so steady that regulars to the Pit called him the Tiny Fortress. Overpowering Farbod would be a tough task, even for someone as strong as the Faerghus firebrand.

At least Claude's father could never be accused of favoritism towards his son by making things too easy.

Isabella leaned over to Claude as the two opponents squared off. “That boy’s a Fraldarius, right?”

Claude nodded, shifting forward in his seat. “His name is Felix.”

The swordsman lashed out with an arm, ducking down to throw his opponent off balance with his lower center of gravity. Claude had seen him to it to Sylvain more than once on the training grounds, presumably when the masochistic redhead decided his friend needed to let off some extra steam and sparring wasn’t cutting it. If Felix’s challenger expected the advisor to be intimidated by his larger build, he was in for an unpleasant surprise.

“Thought so,” the queen muttered. “He’s got Rodrigue’s venom. More, even.”

Claude’s eyebrows raised. “You mean Rodrigue was a grumpy goose when he was in school, too?”

“The grumpiest. He was only friendly with his house and Lambert.” She snickered when both men lost their footing, falling to their knees but refusing to yield like a pair of alley cats in a scrap. “Anyone who messed with Lambert had to watch out unless they wanted some new holes torn into them by Rodrigue. Couldn’t even take a joke. My father told me it was a Kingdom thing, how the Fraldarius line was obsessed with protecting the king. Looks like the tradition’s still strong.”

Advisor or not, Felix would have an aneurysm if he heard that. Claude licked his lips to stop a laugh from escaping.

“They’re not as much like their parents as you might think,” he said instead.

Felix’s leg swung out to hook around his opponent’s, trying to break through the last defense of his knees without his upper body being overpowered by the man’s sheer size. Claude’s mother rested her chin on her fist. “I could tell that much from the scrap in the hallway. The kid’s got a good right hook, and it looks like he’s got some wrestling instincts, too. Rodrigue was always useless without a weapon in his hands.”

“I’m pretty sure Felix would say he  _ is _ the weapon,” Claude said with a snort. “He and his father don’t see eye to eye about much.”

“That makes two of us.”

Bursting forward with all his strength, Felix shoved his opponent off-balance from their awkward kneeling position. Farbod’s back hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The other gladiators cheered the match’s end alongside Dimitri.

Claude's father smiled like he always did at displays of skill, giving a polite round of applause. “Well fought, indeed! You’ve proven your strength to Almyra, advisor of Faerghus."

Having pushed back up to his feet with a grunt, Farbod extended his hand to Felix in a truce. They clasped arms near the elbow. Claude saw the Almyran man's mouth move, unable to hear the words from so far away, but he recognized Felix’s respectful nod as a sign there were no hard feelings about the outcome.

Claude smiled to himself. Felix had passed the first test as well as he’d hoped. One down. One to go.

“It is your turn, King of Faerghus.” The two rulers locked gazes as Felix retreated to the sidelines where he was handed a fresh waterskin. Both he and Farbod were greeted with claps on the back and congratulations for a contest well-fought, Dimitri only giving his advisor a nod while passing Felix on his way out to the center of the arena. Cyrus raised his arm towards the other gladiators, silencing their chatter. “Babak shall be your opponent today. You may begin whenever you are ready.”

The man in question was nearly Dedue’s size, matching the broadness of Dimitri’s considerable shoulders yet built stockier. Claude knew him as the Bonebreaker, his feats of strength a favorite topic while trading stories around celebratory bonfires. Babak saluted both his own king and then the king of Faerghus with a hand over his heart, a gesture Dimitri echoed with solemnity. The second his knuckles left his breast, the huge man lunged at Dimitri. Faerghus’ king stood firm, but he hesitated to return Babak’s grapple.

Dimitri was afraid of his strength. This wasn't some friendly sparring match with a weapon in hand where the steel would break before it broke the man he was fighting against. This was hand-to-hand combat. One uncontrolled burst of Dimitri’s crest could crush bones or worse.

Claude chewed his lip, debating how he could get Dimitri to trust in himself. Losing here wasn't an option.

“He’s a fighter, but he can’t handle simple arena match," Claude’s father muttered. "I'd expected the warlord king you told us about to be tougher than this. Babak is even trying to give him a fighting chance."

“I’m not surprised. Lambert was freakishly strong, but Rodrigue did all the real dirty work. Looks like his son is the same,” the queen sighed.

Claude scowled. “Don’t count him out yet.”

Dimitri was prime stock by Almyran standards. A warrior with a thirst for battle. A survivor. Everything Claude's parents had bred their son to be with none of the Almyran blood.

He would make sure they saw that.

"Stop holding back, boar! Now is not the time to pretend you don't love fighting!" Felix snapped from the sidelines, giving violent voice to Claude's thoughts.

Whether it was the use of an old insult or merely the familiar bite of Felix's voice, that shout woke Dimitri up. He surged forward to get a firm grip on his opponent, arms flexing around his opponent like a constrictor. Babak, digging in and clawing fingers against the king's sides, was lifted clean off his feet. Panicked eyes met the cold blue of Dimitri's as the king took a knee, calmly pressing the Almyran into the dirt, back first. There was no savagery in Dimitri's movements. Strong as he was, he simply didn't need aggression in this kind of contest, which only made his method of victory more terrifying if the murmurs of the other gladiators meant anything.

"An unorthodox way to win a match," Cyrus hummed, stroking his beard. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. You were right, my dear. That crest must make him remarkably powerful."

Isabella grinned back at her husband. “Seeing is believing. There’s nothing like a Blaiddyd’s strength.”

Claude was about to chime in with his own two cents, but Dimitri held out his hand to help his opponent to his feet, and the prince realized far too late that he’d forgotten to relay a very important nugget of Almyran culture. Gestures. They played an important role in Almyra's combat, but they were so natural to Claude he didn't think to say anything. 

In offering to help his opponent up, the king of Faerghus had accidentally implied Babak was so weak that he could not stand on his own.

"I greet you as a brother, and you dare mock me, outsider?” the gladiator snarled, batting away Dimitri’s outstretched palm.

Dimitri had only enough time for confusion to cloud his face before Babak sought retribution for the slight. He leaped at the king, swinging over his body to wrap two beefy arms around Dimitri’s neck. Curled hands, shaking with restraint, clutched at the forearm pressing against his trachea.

"Yield!" Babak demanded.

Three things happened in rapid succession as the gladiator's hold tightened. Cyrus and Isabella called for a halt to the tournament, Felix charged at the man choking his king, and Dimitri's eye glazed over.

Felix was lucky he caught the king’s change of demeanor at the same moment Claude did because the advisor barely had time to change course and get out of the line of fire when Dimitri roared. Babak flew like a throwing knife across the pit, ribs cracking as he hit the far column.

The gladiator groaned. Dimitri's eye flew wide. His hands shook as the guards ran to Babak’s side, calling down a healer with a stretcher. The man was still conscious, a good sign, but he wouldn’t be fighting in the Pit or anywhere else anytime soon. Dimitri muttered something, likely an apology, as Felix hissed under his breath to keep his king grounded.

Claude wished the rapid beating of his heart after seeing a giant man get tossed across an arena was only from concern for the well-being of both parties. He adjusted in his seat.

Almyra’s king laughed uproariously, rising to his feet to applaud. The queen and other Almyrans followed his lead. "Now  _ that _ is the warrior my boy promised! What remarkable strength and ferocity! Tell me, what is your name, king?”

The horrified eye of Faerghus' king locked with Cyrus’s. Dimitri forced steadiness into his voice, somehow remembering the importance of that question through his fear that he’d caused irreparable harm to an Almyran citizen. “I am called Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. And this is my advisor, Felix Hugo Fraldarius.” 

“Then tonight, we feast in your honor King Dimitri and advisor Felix. All of Almyra shall know the strength of my son’s allies,” Cyrus declared. His face folded with smile lines shallow from lack of use.

Warmth shot through Claude upon witnessing Dimitri’s victory and his father’s approval. Now  _ that  _ was the sort of welcome they’d tell stories about for generations. Claude smiled at Dimitri, as overwhelmingly proud of his display as the other man was mortified by it. It wasn’t a clean win, but it was a win, and that was all he needed today.

To Claude’s surprise, Dimitri smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real-life business and some other issues got in the way of a timely update this week, but I hope the extra-long chapter was worth the wait. I know I'm embarrassingly behind on responding to comments, so apologies to all those who have been waiting since the first chapter was released. I hope to get back on track soon.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading and your kudos/comments! We're getting close to the guys finally having some opportunities to talk, promise.
> 
> Fanart for chapter 2 by @vanillatales:  
[Meeting Isabella](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8bVse0nDU9/?igshid=m5bzrm3u78xv)


	3. Welcome Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Felix see a little more of Pasar. Dimitri struggles to cope with his homesickness.

Breathe.

The heady rush of power and fear still coursing through him like a blizzard wind tearing through an open window, Dimitri struggled to find his center. Claude had tried to teach him meditation once, back when they were nothing but fellow house leaders, when his demons were secret but his stress was not, but Dimitri had never gotten the hang of it. Silence brought doubt. Savage memories. Voices. 

How had he forgotten how good it felt to fight? Addiction to battle still bubbled under his skin, a dormant volcano crusted over but molten at its core. All it needed was a single crack for the violence to escape.

Dimitri stared dumbly at the man who had tried to strangle him and the healers rushing to his aid, knowing he should be mortified. The bloodlust that Faerghus vaunted was an evil thing, as Felix (and Glenn) so often reminded him. A wicked tool to be used only with caution and against those who deserved to know the Kingdom’s wrath.

Their applause made it hard to remember. Claude’s coy smile, like a horse master showing off his fiercest charger to a crowd expecting a humble palfrey, made it impossible.

The effervescent pride of pleasing Claude bubbled over the guilt within Dimitri. He returned the smile. 

"Don't go getting complacent," Felix warned through clenched teeth, and the world dimmed to earth tones again. 

The advisor prowled around his king with hackles raised, ready to pounce on any combatant who might want to take vengeance for Babak's condition. Dimitri was grateful that the objects of Felix's ire were strictly ranked, or the swordsman might be after his throat, too, for losing control. A tongue lashing in private was assured. 

(That was their old routine. This newer, kinder Felix might not react at all, and Dimitri’s stomach churned at the thought of his silence.)

Thankfully, no one gave a sign their cheering for Dimitri's explosive victory was false. Cyrus waved his hand and they scurried back into the lower arena like foxes returning to den after a successful hunt. Babek was carted off. The Almyran king stepped aside to speak with a guard, while his wife and son descended to greet their guests.

Dimitri’s eye devoured their movements. With his own parents long departed and Claude's only relative in Fodlan gone as well by the time they had reunited, he never imagined Claude's parents as a real thing. Yet here they were, flesh and bone and very much alive. 

Claude had taken all his most enchanting traits from his mother. His carefree laugh, his striking smile, eyes that could lure a sailor to drown with the ocean in their depths. Even the curl to her hair was similar, though hers glinted copper under the sun instead of shimmering like an Almyran stallion’s dark, glossy coat. Claude's physique and presence as a leader, on the other hand, clearly came from his father. Calm and authoritative, with a fierceness that was felt rather than flaunted, Dimitri could easily imagine Claude in his father's place one day, a mighty king of Almyra.

Queen Isabella reached them before her son, raising a hand to greet Dimitri and Felix. She addressed the king first, dragging eyes over him in appraising way that made him wish he could hide the ugly scarring mangling his upper body.

“So you did get your dad’s strength after all. Blaiddyd’s crest is something else,” she drawled.

“Ah...yes." Dimitri coughed, uncertain of how to respond. He couldn't tell if that was a reprimand or praise. "My apologies for any strife I’ve caused. It wasn’t my intent to hurt anyone.”

“Babak?” She snorted. “He’ll be fine. Can’t be any worse than getting tossed by a wyvern, and he’s had that happen plenty of times. The man’s useless in a saddle.”

This was where someone personable like Sylvain would tell a joke about riding to liven the mood. Dimitri merely sighed, “I just wish I understood what happened.”

“Well, you kind of called him a coward,” Claude explained from his other side. His fingers ran through messy locks as he laughed sheepishly. “I may have forgotten a few important details about combat etiquette in Almyra. Trying to help an opponent up who doesn’t reach for your hand first is kinda rude. It’s like saying they’re too weak to get up on their own. Sorry for not mentioning it earlier.”

Dimitri shook his head, grateful for the tie which kept his bangs from obscuring his good eye. “It is my mistake, Claude. I should have prepared better.”

Unconvinced, the archer chuckled, “No offense, Your Kingliness, but no amount of preparation would have made a difference. You know how Fodlan nobles have a thousand different greetings and acceptable conversation topics and ways of drinking tea to be considered polite? Well, your hoity-toity dinner conversation is our sparring sessions. You’ll never figure it all out from a book.”

“Is there some way I could make amends and show him I acted out of ignorance rather than malice? Perhaps I can get him a gift...”

“You need to stop being so  _ nice _ . You insulted him. He attacked you. He paid the price,” Felix interjected. He sounded ready to strangle Dimitri himself. “That man doesn’t want anything from you other than a rematch.”

Claude’s mother nodded sagely. “Your advisor is right. Giving a gift now would only make it seem like you pitied him.” 

She paused. Her gaze flicked from Dimitri down to Claude, and a coy smile spread across her face, looking eerily like her son whenever a new scheme popped into his head. Turning on a heel, she redirected that predatory expression to Felix. “Now that I think of it, you look like you still want to go a few more rounds yourself. What do you say, Fraldarius? Want to spar?”

Felix raised a single eyebrow. “You think you can keep up?”

“I beat your old man plenty of times back at the Academy,” she taunted.

Dimitri bit his tongue to keep silent. On the one hand, Felix’s manners were atrocious as a guest in someone’s home by Kingdom standards. On the other, the queen of Almyra seemed to be salivating like a dog being offered its favorite toy at the thought of a spar with the man who’d punched out one of her guards and wrestled down another, and Felix was rocking on his toes like he did whenever the itch to fight got under his skin.

It was becoming clear Dimitri’s years of training about Fodlan’s decorum would be of no help here.

Seeming to sense his inner struggle, Claude patted Dimitri’s bare bicep. “Go on, Felix. I’ll make sure your king is safe. Try not to beat him up too bad, mom. I know he looks good in black and blue, but I don’t think he needs to wear it head to toe.”

“If he’s as good as he thinks he is, it won’t be a problem.” Isabella laughed short and sharp, stretching out as she tossed aside her outer jacket. Dimitri winced when the embellished garment hit the dirt.

Felix, unbothered by the poor treatment of her royal clothing, dropped into a ready stance, a fire burning in his eyes. “You’re on. Let’s go.”

Dimitri’s thoughts wandered to all the horrible places this could end, mostly Felix injuring Queen Isabella and starting an international incident. Felix landed the first strike as if to confirm his fears, a glancing blow off the queen’s shoulder. The hand on Dimitri's arm squeezed.

“Don’t look so worried,” Claude’s siren voice pulled Dimitri away from the first punches being thrown. “They’ll be fine. That’s my mom’s way of saying she likes him.”

Dimitri licked his lips and nodded. “I trust you.”

Claude trapped him with piercing emerald eyes, an echo of amusement crinkling their corners. “Yes, I could have guessed that by your knuckles turning white. But if it isn’t them, then what’s bothering you?”

Dimitri had to look away to think about his answer rather than the calluses on Claude’s fingertips or the welcoming curve of his mouth. It was true that the fight and impending political catastrophe was part of the king’s concern, but something else had been bothering him, too. Something that had been apparent since Felix punched that guard this morning. 

Dimitri molded his feelings into words with an inexpert tongue. “I suppose I knew intellectually that Almyra was different from our letters, but...it’s far more than I thought. It feels as though every lesson I’ve been taught about how to behave in diplomatic situations is wrong. We have been fortunate to have won your parents’ favor through luck this morning. Still, I want us to represent Faerghus well while we are here." He faced Claude, the corners of his mouth lifting. "And as your personal guest, I want to reflect well upon you to your people, too."

Claude stilled, a deer staring down an unexpected rustle in the brush, deciding if it needed to run. His guard came up in the form of a smile that felt frigid when Dimitri had become accustomed to his warmth. "You're doing just fine. You know I'd never bring a losing hand into one of my schemes."

"So I am here for a scheme." It wasn't a surprise that Felix had been right, but Dimitri couldn't pretend it didn't sting.

Claude’s lips fell into a flat line, wavering in a struggle to keep their easy upturn. "That makes me sound terrible when you say it like that. You don't think that's the only reason I asked you to come, do you?"

"I don't know. I've never been able to keep up with the way your mind works,” Dimitri answered honestly. He had hoped, of course. “But even if I am only here for one of your schemes, I'm glad to spend time with you. I meant what I said earlier about missing your company. I…"

Dimitri’s arm chilled as Claude’s hand fell away. The prince's head snapped over his shoulder, away from his friend and the pair bobbing and weaving behind them. "Hold that thought, Your Kingliness. My dad's coming.”

Indeed, there was Cyrus rapidly approaching with an iron step and a regal nod toward the other king, which Dimitri returned. He smothered the surge of annoyance at having his conversation with Claude interrupted. Dimitri had been told by many times back home that he had a kingly presence like his father when wearing his furs and armor, but Claude’s father put him to shame. The small yet sturdy man could command a room without needing height or finery to seem larger than life.

The king stopped next to his son, who ducked his chin in deference. 

"Claude, Bella, my sister has arrived for the festival,” Cyrus announced to the room at large.

The queen threw Felix to the ground with a grunt. She brushed back the loose strands of hair getting in her eyes and tossed a hand on her hip. Belatedly, Dimitri wondered if Felix had given her one of his hair ties when he wasn’t looking, or if she always carried them on her.

"Do you really need us for that?" Isabella groaned.

Dimitri couldn’t imagine a queen speaking in such an uncouth manner in front of strangers in Fodlan, but Cyrus merely crossed his arms. "Must you always be so petulant about the matter? Do you want her to find new reasons to dislike you?"

"She made her mind up about me years ago,” Isabella grumbled. She mirrored her husband’s stance with arms braced over her chest. “Shoving us together won't make any difference."

It reminded Dimitri of the whispered complaints his step-mother used to make to his father when Rufus would come to visit.

But with thoughts of Rufus came more, sinister ones. The accusations surrounding his uncle's murder. The cold cell they kept him in until hope and humanity bled from his used up flesh. Dedue’s body torn to shreds as he disobeyed his liege to trade his life for Dimitri’s.

The king wished Claude’s hand was still on his arm to anchor him to the present. He ground his teeth, using the pain of his jaw instead.

"Please, my love," Cyrus pleaded, not tender, but caring in its firmness.

Isabella held his stare for a minute longer, then sighed, uncrossing her arms. "...fine. For your sake. Come on, Claude, it's time to go get judged by Auntie Leila.” She gave Felix a firm slap to the back. He coughed, not expecting it while he brushed the dust from his knees. “Sorry for cutting our match short, Fraldarius. You’re pretty good in a scrap for a Kingdom noble. I'll save you a spar at the festival."

Felix, trying to keep hold of his cantankerousness, didn't know what to do with the queen's carefree attitude. Dimitri bit his cheek to hold in a laugh as his advisor mumbled something that sounded like agreement, made unintelligible by the flabberghasted gape of his mouth.

"I guess that's my cue to leave, too,” Claude said beside him. Dimitri’s half-smile vanished. “Hey now, don't look so upset! I promise we'll sit next to each other tonight. Just like old times."

How strange, to look upon days of war with fondness. But Dimitri wouldn’t lie to himself and pretend he hadn’t missed some of it. The freedom to exist in the moment that came with not knowing if you’d live to see the dawn. The comradery of men and women shining brightly through the darkness of a night that might never end. And a young Duke, full of dreams, staring up at the field of stars above their heads with clear eyes that reflected all the world’s hopes under the light of the full moon.

"I look forward to it,” Dimitri murmured.

A tiny wink, a flash of playfulness meant just for him, and Claude was gone, trailing behind his parents. It was disturbing how easily the clever prince could render his mind useless. Felix’s fist thwacking his shoulder agreed.

“Hey. Dimitri. What’s the plan?” his advisor demanded.

“I believe washing up should be our first order of business, don’t you? It looks like Queen Isabella gave you quite the workout.” It was a jab, but gentle enough that Dimitri hoped he wouldn’t be skewered by Felix’s riposte.

“She’s a good opponent," Felix admitted. He stretched his arms overhead, glaring at the door where she'd exited. “I’ll still beat her in the tournament.”

Dimitri chuckled, swallowing the sound when Felix's flinty stare cut to him. “I would expect nothing less from you, Felix,” Dimitri said seriously. “Come then, let’s head downstairs to bathe. We can explore the grounds when we’ve finished. I’d like to find their library to see if there are any etiquette books I might borrow to avoid a repeat of what happened with Babak.”

Felix shook his head, already heading for the bathing area. “Didn’t Claude just get done telling you it’s a waste of time?”

“You don’t need to come with me,” Dimitri replied, following a step behind.

“And let you nearly kill someone else? You’re not going alone.”

Dimitri let the matter drop.

Word traveled quickly in the palace. Although suspicious eyes still tracked them, Felix and Dimitri weren't stopped again while wandering the halls. The only place that refused them entry was the library itself, claiming that outsiders digging through their books was a matter of national security. Felix scoffed, but Dimitri let it pass, not interested in another fight today. 

He changed his tactic. Putting on his blandest royal smile, Dimitri said he completely understood their concern and politely suggested that the librarian could retrieve the books he was looking for on his behalf, so they needn’t worry about anyone harming their prized collection. The man grimaced, struggling to think of another reason to say no. Unable to, he nodded and disappeared into the depths of the library, only to return a few minutes later with two books on the topics Dimitri had requested. Children’s books, Dimitri assumed, flipping through the thin volumes with numerous pictures inside. It was lucky he only needed to occupy himself for a few hours. He’d talk with Claude tomorrow about getting his hands on better reading materials.

Giving a curt acknowledgment to the scowling librarian, Dimitri handed his advisor one of the books. It was entitled  _ Swords and Bows - The Warrior Within _ . The cover had been decorated with an illustration of a man on wyvernback holding an Almyran blade in one hand and a shortbow in the other, dressed in the same attire Claude wore during the latter half of the war. Felix thanked him for the distraction, albeit quietly and with a scowl.

When Dimitri, at last, returned to his room, he found a neatly folded pile of cobalt blue fabric waiting for him on his bed, accompanied by a note written in a familiar script. 

_ Wear these tonight. Don't want you ruining your nice outfits by getting them singed. ~Claude _

Dimitri ran his fingers over the soft fibers. Even busy with family politics, Claude took the time to care for his guests. 

To care for him.

Dimitri buried his nose in his book to avoid overanalyzing that thought. If there was anything worth learning about Almyran customs in those pages, it would be best to absorb what he could before tonight. One of his hands continued to stroke over the fabric while he read.

Dimitri didn’t notice the light through the window dimming as afternoon gave way to evening. Halfway through a humorous anecdote about the pitfalls of assisting a comrade off a wyvern without remembering to hold its reins, Felix knocked at his door.

"You awake? It’s time to get moving,” he called from the other side. Dimitri rolled out of bed to greet him.

By the Goddess, the man was a sight. Dimitri had often heard Felix described as ‘dashing’ by young women too afraid to approach him, and he feared this new outfit would send them flinging themselves at him as they did at Sylvain. Swathed in navy blues, blacks, and golds, Felix waited outside his room with an impatient scowl. He’d been given extra accessories for the evening, too. Large bangles hung around his exposed wrists and the golden visage of a fanged beast, perhaps a lion or wolf, encircled the pinch where his ponytail was tied. In this new attire, Felix looked as elegant as a courtesan groomed for a noble suitor, yet no less lethal for his grace.

Acknowledging the summons, Dimitri shut his door again, changing into the richer blues Claude had chosen for him. Thankfully, they'd been able to account for his height. The decorative clothing fit his broad frame without straining at the widest point, but swaths of extra fabric draped loosely at his waist. He’d noticed that many Almyrans were barrel-chested, more like Dedue than himself, and this outfit must have been designed with them in mind. Dimitri wound the white and red sash with dancing lions around his middle several times which helped to make the whole ensemble feel more fitted and regal. A glance in the mirror still confirmed this layered attire suited Claude (and even Felix) more than it did himself.

The pair eventually made their way to the outdoor area of the palace grounds with the help of a guard. The feast was to be held at the main temple, not far from a gate which led to the outer city. Despite the inside of the palace having breathtaking scrollwork throughout its halls, Pasar’s place of worship was modest compared to Garreg Mach’s vaulted ceilings and stained glass artwork. Dimitri saw no statues of gods or goddesses on the outside, nor decorations, nor even walls to keep out the weather. Instead, it seemed to welcome the elements inside, the columns around its perimeter surrounding nothing but people, feasting tables, and a large bonfire in a metal cauldron. 

They were escorted to a table closest to the fire where the royal family was sitting. Claude waved the pair over, looking for once every bit a prince in his ornate greens and golds, and patted the seat next to him for Dimitri. On Claude’s other side sat the queen and his father once again, followed by a man Dimitri didn’t recognize. He’d been expecting the king’s sister, but she was nowhere to be found.

The man, tall, stocky, and scarred, with the long hair and thick beard of a mercenary, grinned at Dimitri. He’d been expecting bared fangs from someone symbolically seated at Almyra’s right hand, but his smile appeared genuine.

Never one to let others dictate the flow of an encounter, Cyrus cut in with an introduction. "Come. Meet my blood brother. He was also my son’s teacher for many years, Nader the Undefeated."

Dimitri had heard that name before from Holst. A legend in Fodlan's Locket. To earn an epithet like that from the king and sit at his side, Nader must have been a warrior of unmatched renown, though Dimitri knew little of his most famous feats. He wondered if it would be rude to ask; the book had said that sharing stories of valor was a good way to build new bonds.

Nader raised his hand in greeting. "Nice to meet you. And you are?"

"I am King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. It's a pleasure to meet a legend such as yourself," Dimitri replied, raising his hand in kind. The gesture felt foreign to him despite his practice at home, but Nader's smile didn't falter if his movements were awkward to Almyran eyes.

"So you're the infamous powerhouse from Fodlan, eh?" The bearded man laughed, turning his grin on Claude as if he was the man’s uncle rather than a scourge of the region Claude used to rule as Duke. "You sure know how to pick 'em, kiddo."

"Could you not call me that? I'm an adult now,” the archer groused. 

Ignoring his plea, Nader leaned forward to address Dimitri's sharp-eyed shadow next. "And this must be the little bolt of lightning I've been hearing about from Bella. What's your name?"

"Felix,” came his gruff introduction. Then, more stilted, "I'm His Majesty's advisor."

He managed to say it without sarcasm, but Dimitri still heard the title stick to Felix's teeth, too sweet for the swordsman to stomach.

Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice. King Cyrus stood, silencing the temple. His speech to honor his guests from Faerghus was short and received without complaint by his subjects, followed by a mass prayer giving thanks to the earth for the bounty they were going to consume tonight. 

It should have felt blasphemous. They never mentioned the Goddess in their prayer, nor clasped their hands to show their piety. Yet watching Claude's head bow respectfully, reciting words with more conviction than he'd ever sung hymns at Garreg Mach, Dimitri couldn't deny the strength of their peculiar brand of faith. As the king of a once holy kingdom who doubted his Goddess even existed, Dimitri had no standing to judge their beliefs.

With the prayer finished, the Cyrus raised both hands overhead, signaling the start of their festivities.

A troupe of dancers filed out around the small fire. Their modest dresses dyed deep crimson and trimmed in white swayed as they stooped next to the fire, one by one, placing an offering of wood within the flames. The fire steadily climbed from its metal cage to look Dimitri in the eye. He shuddered, colder with every burst of heat. 

It was too big. He was too close. 

As the dancers began to move in hypnotic patterns around the flames, Dimitri's senses swam. Sharp shadows broke the surrounding crowd into dizzying fragments. Smiling faces shattered, twisting into vengeful specters clawing at him from the encroaching dark. Their eyes glittered with monstrous intent. Their voices shouted wordless accusations. 

Claude's hand found the back of his elbow. 

Out of sight from the others, the archer stroked a calming rhythm against Dimitri's skin as he had so many times during the war. He compressed the firm muscle, pulling his friend's attention away from the raging fire. 

Dimitri’s eye searched for Claude’s but his mother caught him first.

"Not much like praying to the Goddess, is it Dimitri?” she chortled, unaware of his inner struggle.

Dimitri couldn’t bear to look back at the fire yet, afraid of what he might see. So he rubbed his chin, putting on the act of respectful ruler, and parroted his thoughts from earlier. "I agree that at first glance, this is nothing like the Church. But I believe the spirit behind it is the same, regardless of the manner of worship. It is heartwarming to see a people so moved by their beliefs." 

“Hm. An interesting take for the ruler of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.” 

The queen didn’t ask anything more. He didn’t try to carry the conversation either, focused slavishly on Claude's steadying touch.

Dimitri didn't need to hold the illusion of watching the dance for long. Sprawling trays of cubed meats that smelled like the richest of Dedue’s spices were carried from the kitchens and laid upon their tables, complemented by vegetables of textures, colors, and quantities Dimitri had never seen in his life. Faerghus had always been sparing with its greens, particularly near Fhirdiad where the ground froze two-thirds of the year. They favored foods that could keep during the long winter. Tasteless roots, some would say, but that hardly mattered to someone like Dimitri. 

When they'd lived at Garreg Mach, many of the Kingdom students jumped at the chance to try more vegetables than they’d likely see for the rest of their lives. He could only imagine their faces if they saw this. The academy's modest greenhouse couldn’t grow half of the rainbow of options laid out before him now. To think Pasar managed to eat like this even surrounded by desert, Almyra must have a remarkable system of trade and agriculture.

So enamored by the sights and smells, it wasn’t until Dimitri had taken his third bite that he thought to look at the people sitting next to him for clues about how he should react to the flavor absent in his mouth. The meat that melted on his tongue must have been spicy. Felix was devouring it with enough gusto that if their other childhood friends had been here in Almyra with them, Sylvain would have joked about Felix trying to take Ingrid's crown as queen of the dinner table.

Any burn Dimitri might have felt from the food was smothered by fire searing down his throat when he took a swig from the cup he’d been offered. It smelled like the wines Faerghus sometimes imported from the Alliance. Dimitri guessed it was something native to Almyra, but Claude was too focused on his own food for him to feel polite asking during dinner.

At last, the feast became a true party, like the ones Claude would reminisce about whenever they had enough food for a special meal during the war. The king and queen joined their people in song and dance as they laughed and jumped through the flames. Claude offered his hand to his guests, trying to cajole them into joining the wild festivities, but Felix had no interest in dancing and Dimitri preferred to keep his distance from the raging bonfire. When Claude gave up, partaking in the excitement on his own, Felix stalked off, probably to get away from all the people.

Dimitri took another swig of the mystery drink. 

A few of the gladiators Dimitri recognized from the morning found their way to him in the chaos. He made pleasant, useless conversation. He probably should have paid more attention to what he was saying, but it was hard to focus when watching Claude dance.

The man was an expression of raw excitement. He whirled around the fire with boisterous shouts, whipping his braid and robes around him in a vivacious frenzy. His brilliance made the man-sized flames look like a candle trying to outshine the sun.

He was nothing like Dimitri, who clung to the edge of the party and drank to steel his nerves. Dimitri lifted his hand to look at the dance of color across his palms, yellow and sickly, unlike the vibrant gold of those leaping near the flames. 

_ “You shouldn’t be here, brother,” _ El said, though she had never called him that when she was alive.  _ “You aren’t like them.” _

Dimitri’s fist clenched around his cup, just shy of cracking it. The alcohol had been a mistake.

_ “What makes you think you have the right to ignore me? You stole my future from me, Dimitri. If you are to brazenly claim you have the right to rule while I did not, then you must take responsibility for Fodlan, instead of gallivanting around this place with that outsider who poisoned your mind.” _

It was too hot. Too loud. Dimitri scanned the crowd for Felix, taking his leave from the Almyrans trying to beg a moment more of his time. He needed to get away from the noise to halt this growing headache. Felix was thankfully easy to find, a splash of dark clothes and light skin in the center of a ring of Almyrans, most noticeably larger than him. They were arm wrestling.

Felix looked happier than Dimitri had seen him in ten years.

"Someone’s deep in thought. Keep that up and your frown will stick that way, which would be such a shame. You have an  _ enchanting _ smile."

Dimitri blinked, dragging his eye to Claude who had sauntered up on his blind side. His skin gleamed like his polished jewelry, loose strands of hair plastered to his forehead with sweat from his uninhibited display around the fire. He grinned at the king.

"You sound like Sylvain," Dimitri admonished without heat. He looked away from the bead of sweat rolling a shining trail into Claude’s collar.

Worried, Claude's voice softened to a solemn mutter beneath the cheerful howls of the other party-goers. "Seriously, Dimitri, what's on your mind?"

Dimitri’s eye found the table with his advisor again. Felix slammed a man’s hand down to the table with a triumphant smirk. Around him, Almyrans raised their glasses in a hearty cheer.

"Felix is...smiling," Dimitri murmured.

Claude followed his gaze with a thoughtful hum. "Huh. Will you look at that. I didn’t know he was capable. I guess sometimes you need an escape to let yourself be happy."

_ “Escaping is for the weak. I suppose you’ve always been a weak person. If you weren’t, I might have been able to trust you.” _

"...Dimitri?"

The king swallowed, focusing on the burn of another sip of alcohol down his throat rather than the buzzing of his head or El’s voice whispering for him to listen. "I was just thinking I…” He pursed his lips, trying to remember what a diplomatic smile felt like. He wished he was better at faking them like Claude. “I think I’m still tired from the trip. I should retire early, but I don't want to drag him away when he looks so happy."

"I'll take you,” Claude offered. Dimitri didn’t like the searching look in his eyes. He should have been having fun, not worrying about a foolish king’s insecurities. “And don't try to tell me you can just go alone. You'll get lost in five minutes."

"...yeah."

The concerned tilt to Claude’s eyebrows deepened. "Oh, hey, I didn't mean it like that! I meant...I'd like to go with you. We haven't had much time to catch up, and I know all the back routes to get you out without someone asking where you've gone.” He patted Dimitri on the shoulder. “I'll go let Felix know I'm taking you, and we can head out, alright?"

Dimitri nodded. He didn’t know how long Claude disappeared into the crowd for after that, but they were leaving before the king emptied his glass. 

It would be alright. Claude was at his side. There was nothing they couldn't face together, even if Dimitri was nursing a headache, hearing things, and so buzzed he felt like his room was a whole country away.

_ "It is," _ El's voice reminded him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart by the amazing @vanillatales:  
[After the match](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8bWBv0HdP5/?igshid=1stq05y55ughy)


	4. An Overdue Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and Dimitri talk. They work out a way for Dimitri to sleep soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really earning the M rating in this chapter. It contains several examples of overt racism and many references to sex, so read with caution.
> 
> (There's also some kick you in the teeth pining.)

Claude pressed a cup of water into Dimitri’s palms, stealing away the dregs of his Istahran wine. The king hadn’t consumed much, but his eye focused far beyond the laughter and flames, sometimes lingering on Felix and sometimes turning towards an unpleasant memory Claude was not brazen enough to ask about. Lesson learned, drinking at parties wouldn’t help Dimitri relax. 

As Claude led them away from the temple, the whispers of the other Almyrans reached his well-trained ears. Most were in praise of the party or retelling the story of that morning’s scuffle. A few, watching Claude guide Dimitri with a friendly hand on his back, had more colorful things to say.

“Do you think they’re…?”

“The prince spent a lot of time in the outlands. Maybe they got to him.”

“Even the king didn’t bond with an outsider.”

“Who said anything about bonding? Can’t a man just have a taste for white meat? Those Fodlans are awfully pretty.”

“Not worth it. Didn’t you see what happened to Babak?”

“So their king’s a wild ride. The prince is a Barbarossa now, I’m sure he can handle it.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Claude bit his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes at the crass remarks. He’d heard it all before. If the rabble wasn’t calling his mother a coward, they were calling her the king’s conquest, like she was some exotic pet he had bought on the Fodlan market. As sick as it made him, he’d known Dimitri and Felix might be seen the same way when Claude had introduced them as his personal guests. He hoped no one was foolish enough to call Felix a prince’s bedwarmer to his face.

It was a solemn reminder that Claude had many more minds to change before the people would accept his proposal for open borders with Fodlan. If all respect took was fighting, his mother would have been the most beloved woman in the country. Yet even now, Aunt Leila hated her for being an outsider. Predictably, his aunt’s excitement at the prospect of a feast on the day of her arrival vanished when she heard the guests of honor would be from Fodlan, becoming mysteriously too ill to attend.

Her biting remarks about Claude’s return to Almyra hadn’t been any more welcoming.

“We all assumed Nader had petitioned for you to be made a Barbarossa posthumously,” she cooed, watching his smile for any sign the daggers from her tongue were hitting home. “It’s so unusual for someone to be allowed the honor of wearing their colors without flying for it.” 

“Not that we think you didn’t earn it,” Arman quickly covered for his mother. 

Claude’s older cousin had always been a better man than he was raised to be by Leila. It was a shame he stood directly between Claude and Almyra’s throne. If Claude could have trusted him not to spy for his mother in his bid to become king, Claude might not have had to burn the letters from his friends that afternoon.

Claude twirled the strings tied around his dagger’s hilt, calming himself with the tickle of thread fibers over his knuckles. It was alright. He could be patient. Rumors were fine as long as no one knew that he intended to ask Dimitri to be his blood brother once he became king, the same way his father had asked Nader upon his ascension. Almyra might forgive him for taking a Fodlan king as a lover. However, binding himself to an outsider before he proved he was Almyran enough to claim the throne would keep it forever out of reach.

Glancing over at Dimitri with his golden mane swept back in roguish layers and the cobalt finery of Almyra highlighting the ice storm of his eye, Claude wondered if the lover part of that arrangement couldn’t come sooner than his coronation as long as the rumors were already flowing.

But not tonight. Tonight, Dimitri was upset, and though Claude wasn’t renowned for his sensitivity, he had enough sense not to suggest physical pleasure would solve all of Dimitri’s problems, unlike a certain rake the two of them called friend. Claude had comforted Dimitri enough times during the war to know what would ease him through the night. A warm smile, a gentle touch. A friend.

"How did you do it?"

Claude jumped at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts. Dimitri was looking down at him with a reverent expression as their steps echoed through empty hallways, and Claude didn’t know what to make of it. 

"It speaks!” he quipped. “Sorry, your Kingliness, you're gonna have to be more specific than that. How did I do what?"

"How did you come to Fodlan and simply...learn everything.” Dimitri heaved a wistful sigh, boots scuffing the floors as the alcohol loosened his body language. “I always knew you were intelligent and resourceful. But now that I've experienced what it's like for the world around you to be so foreign, I realize my admiration for your resilience has been too limited. You truly are a remarkable man, Claude. You’ve overcome so much." His eye dropped down and to the left like it did whenever he thought of home. Comparing his plight to Dedue’s, perhaps. "I can't imagine how you managed to fit in at the Academy as though you'd always been in Fodlan."

_ I didn't _ , was the too-honest answer Claude hid behind a smile.

"Bold praise, but weren't you the one who saw right through me?" he reminded the other man.

Dimitri shook his head, the looser strands near his face catching on his eyepatch. "That was different. I only pieced together that you had been born elsewhere because, as a fellow house leader, I had been watching you closely at the Academy. And when we met again...Well, it was impossible to look at anyone else."

Claude knew Dimitri meant he couldn’t look elsewhere because he was essentially a prisoner under Claude’s care at the time, but the thought of having the king’s undivided attention made Claude’s heart stutter in his breast all the same.

“Here we are,” he said as they rounded the final turn to Dimitri’s room, grateful for the distraction. He held the door open. “Sorry, but you’ll have to make do without having any cooling tonight. No one’s been in to prepare your rooms.”

The king smiled at him as he walked past. “It will be fine. Thank you.”

Still buzzed and more relaxed now that he was in trusted company, Dimitri began peeling off his upper layers to prepare for bed, survival written like poetry across his skin in jagged strokes. 

Claude averted his eyes. Although he had seen Dimitri’s bare upper body before, several times to mend his sickness after Gronder and even that morning when he’d touched Dimitri’s bare arm as a sign of comradery, standing in a bedroom with just the two of them was different. It felt voyeuristic to stare at the play of Dimitri’s muscles while the king wrestled off unfamiliar clothing.

The growing heaviness between Claude’s legs, ready for what usually followed a party like the one raging at the temple did not help his discomfort. He hopped up on an empty desk to disguise his interest. 

“How did you enjoy the feast?” Claude asked cheerily. They both needed a distraction from unwanted thoughts.

Dimitri froze, arms poised over his head. Wobbling like a drunken wyvern’s wings, they dropped gracelessly to his sides as he sought out the correct answer for a king to give. “It was...delicious,” he decided. “Your father was very kind to throw this in our honor.”

Claude couldn’t tell if Dimitri was lying about the food. Felix’s enthusiasm had been palpable, a hilarious contrast to his permanent sullen attitude when they were teenagers, but Dimitri ate everything at the same pace he always did. It was as though he was so focused on his company at dinner that he never noticed the flavor of his meal.

“Kind isn’t a word I’d call my dad. Not that he’s cruel but…” Claude shrugged and flicked a speck of dust off the desk. “He’s a king. Almyra comes first.”

Dimitri hummed, laying back in bed. For someone who had always worn so many protective layers in Fodlan, he seemed comfortable sprawled out in nothing but his smallclothes under the covers at his waist. “Yes. From what I recall of my own father, he was much the same. Ruling is not an easy burden. I am only beginning to learn to carry it myself by relying on the strength of those around me. Still, I have faith you will shoulder the weight of the Almyran crown even better than your father one day.”

Claude thought of his aunt and his cousin and all the others coming to the festival this week, each with a different plot to seize the throne from him, and frowned. 

“Right. One day.”

Dimitri rolled over to his side so he could face Claude, a worried crease starting to form across his forehead. “Is something wrong?”

Instinct ratcheted Claude’s lips upwards. What a careless mistake, to show his trepidation about the Almyran crown at such a delicate time. Dimitri got too emotionally invested in other people’s problems, and with whatever had spooked him about the fire tonight, he needed his rest. 

“It’s nothing that can’t wait for tomorrow,” Claude replied. He popped off the desk to stand by the king’s bedside. “I’d like to take you out hunting if that’s something you can get behind. You’ve come all this way, seeing nothing but the palace would be a waste.”

Dimitri’s eye seemed to glow despite only a sliver of the moon shining through the window. “That sounds wonderful. I have been too busy to hunt back in Faerghus, much to Felix’s annoyance, and I’m sure Almyrans have new hunting techniques to learn. It will be a welcome experience with you as my guide.”

Even slightly inebriated and half-asleep, the king made the simplest statements sound like the lines of a lovesick heroine in an opera. It was as ridiculous as it was endearing.

“Then I’ll come to get you once I wake, and we’ll set out early. You should probably sleep off that wine in the meantime,” the prince stated. He turned to leave.

“Claude, if I could have a moment more of your time before you go.” Dimitri was already half out of bed and reaching out to grab him. Claude turned back, an eyebrow cocked. “I just...I…” The king cleared his throat, dropping Claude’s captive wrist. “I wanted to express my thanks. I have missed this. Missed you. Talking about politics and world affairs feels empty without your opinion at the table. The way you challenge my thinking has been an absence I’ve felt every day since our parting.”

“I’m flattered, Your Royalness, but isn’t that what Felix is for?” Claude shot back, trying to diffuse the mounting tension between them. 

Truthfully, he had missed Dimitri’s challenges to his thinking, too. They showed him empathy and the power of having faith in others in a manner Claude doubted he’d ever fully understand. Almyra’s challenges felt poisoned and bitter in comparison, rewarding mistrust and selfishness.

Undeterred, that sharp blue eye shone with adoration. “Felix is a dear advisor and friend. Still, he could never take your place in my life. You are irreplaceable, Claude. The past six months have made that clear to me.”

“Dimitri…” 

The temptation to be honest was looming. Whatever Claude wanted to confess, doing it now, with a bitter fight for the crown still ahead of him and Dimitri unaware of the danger, would be a massive mistake.

“I think the alcohol is getting to you. You should get some sleep,” Claude rushed out. He started backing away from the bed wearing an empty smile. “I’ll go check on Felix for you. They might have him drunkenly dancing on the table by now.”

Dimitri blinked once. His head fell back to the pillow with the resignation of a dog denied its evening walk. 

“Ah...yes...I hope not,” Dimitri replied, either not processing that Claude’s statement had been a joke or not finding it funny. “Thank you for watching out for him. I hope you both enjoy the rest of the celebration.”

When Claude had been eight and got in a scrap with two other kids several years older and many pounds heavier than him, Nader had taught him that pride was never a good reason to fight. Running away when you knew something was too tough to handle was how you became someone who earned a name like ‘The Undefeated’. It had been one of Claude’s earliest and most important lessons in strategy. He’d held onto it like a rider gripping the reins of a wyvern in a death spiral, hoping it might one day earn him a royal title of his own.

What sour irony that Fodlan had given him a name for it first: The Master Tactician. Nothing could be further from the truth right now.

Claude hurried out the door, shutting it behind him and leaning against the wall. He had miscalculated. The power of Dimitri’s earnest yet all-too-suggestive praise shredded his self-control like it was made of flower petals, even faster now that he’d accepted his feelings were more than a passing distraction. 

Enduring friendship. Loneliness when parted. The fires of lust. Did Dimitri truly feel these things between them, too? Or was the sweet deluge of words he drowned Claude in merely an extension of the compassion he showed everyone?

Against the warning in the back of his mind which said he could be caught, Claude sank to the floor outside Dimitri’s room, head in his hands. He lost track of how long he sat there, too aware of the aggressive thumping his heart trying to escape its cage.

A muffled scream carried through the door.

_ Assassins _ , Claude’s paranoid mind supplied. 

He surged to his feet, barging back into Dimitri’s room brandishing a dagger, his blood thick with adrenaline. Claude’s eyes flew across the near-blackness, trying to piece together a picture of what had happened. Window untouched. No signs of struggle. The sheets were dark, but not with blood.

Another sound squeezed from Dimitri's unwilling throat, reedy and pained. It was then Claude realized it. The sweat-drenched skin catching the what little light his room had, the minute twisting of his body rumpling the splotchy sheets, the agony pinching features that should have been relaxed with sleep. 

A nightmare.

Claude froze. During the war, Dimitri's nightmares were not a well-kept secret, but the same could have been said for the rest of the army. War was not kind to the minds of its victims. 

Claude had never dealt with Dimitri’s dreams directly. Would the king feel ashamed if Claude woke him now? Would it even help? Maybe the kindest action was to quietly let the nightmares run their course and make sure no one else heard Dimitri’s distress.

A groan left his lips in the shape of a name. "El…"

Claude had a hand on his sweat-slicked shoulder before the king took another shuddering breath. 

"It's over. She's gone," he whispered. Talking to a sleeping man felt insane, but he had to try something.

"No," Dimitri whimpered. He tossed his head to the side, his untamed mane flopping over his bad eye. "N...should've...sorry…"

The hand on his shoulder gave a firm shake. "I was the one who killed her, remember? Not you. You've got no need to apologize."

"Please….pl's stop…!"

"Dimitri!" Claude snapped, both hands jolting the man sharply.

Dimitri's eye flew open. He shivered as the cold sweat chilled his skin, breath coming in rapid pants too weak to fill his lungs or calm his racing heart. A shimmering iris swallowed by the void of panic turned up towards Claude's worried gaze.

"I...I'm…" Dimitri cleared his throat to stop his voice's shake. "My apologies for disturbing you."

That was Claude's cue to lighten the mood so they could both pretend this event never happened, just like the times Claude had heard Dimitri speak to ghosts or when Dimitri noticed Claude hesitate during their final battle. He frowned instead, perching on the edge of the bed while the thumb of one hand kept rubbing little circles against the king’s collarbone. Dimitri didn't make a move to pull away.

"Have you been dreaming about Edelgard often the past six months?" Claude murmured.

Dimitri closed his eye, resigned. "Sometimes."

"Are they always this bad?"

The king paused.

"...no.” 

Claude snorted softly. Dimitri might have kept the Almyran prince’s identity concealed for six months, but he was never good at hiding his heart. "So they've been this bad before. Does anyone know?"

It was almost adorable, Dimitri's subtle pout at being caught in the lie of omission. "A few people. Dedue. Felix. Mercedes. Sylvain, most likely."

Another clipped answer from someone known for his honesty could only mean there was a secret he didn’t want Claude to figure out. It must have been something he felt was deeply shameful to guard it so carefully, though, with a man like Dimitri, shame could come from almost anywhere. Whatever had been plaguing him these past six months, neither he nor Sylvain had let it slip in their letters.

"Did something happen, Dimitri?" Claude squeezed the king’s shoulder.

To his surprise, Dimitri’s resolve didn't crumble at the use of his name. "It isn't something you should worry about. I'll be alright."

"Easy for you to say when you weren't the one who had to run in here to stop the palace from hearing your yelling," Claude replied with more bite than he intended. He wasn’t unhappy to help, but the thought of secrets being just out of reach made him testy.

Dimitri withdrew his clammy skin from the archer’s touch. "I'm so sorry, Claude. I should have told you that the heat sometimes makes my nightmares worse. Please, don’t mind me. I will try not to bother you again."

That wasn’t what Claude wanted at all.

"What helps them?"

"Pardon?"

"What helps your dreams?” Claude asked again, trying to regain his footing in their conversation after accidentally breaking the ledge under his feet. “If this has been happening often, surely you've come up with a remedy. None of the people you listed are exactly known for their ability to stand by while people are suffering. Especially not when you’re the people."

Red crawled over Dimitri like a leaf preparing to be cut off for a cold, dark winter. His eye dropped toward the place where Claude's hand had rubbed his bare skin. "I'm afraid it's...not something I could ask you to help with."

That kind of embarrassment could only mean one thing.

"Have you been having sex to sleep more soundly?" Claude guessed, unable to stop a gentle tease from sneaking into his tone.

"No!" Dimitri said too hastily. Then slower, "I mean...not just that. That's not…" He sighed, well aware from Claude's amused smirk that he was only digging this hole deeper. "The thing that occasionally helps is falling asleep next to someone I feel safe around."

Claude could hear the unspoken affirmation that at least some of those times had also included sex. Which, in turn, meant he'd laid with at least one of those four people he listed, and given the way Dimitri looked at his dearest friends, Claude could plausibly imagine any of them. Even Felix, who seemed to be fighting with his king less these days. After all, he’d agreed to a private trip across the ocean with Dimitri to meet a mystery prince in a country he didn’t know. 

Jealousy and hope tangled in Claude's chest.

"I can stay with you if it will help," he offered. “I don’t have anywhere else I need to be right now.”

"But the party...and Felix…" Dimitri protested.

"They'll be fine without me. Besides, I've made a habit of skipping out on parties for you during the last year. It would be weirder if I stayed."

"I'm…"

"Don't apologize,” Claude interrupted. “I won’t even make you ask for it. If you’d like me to stay, just scoot over a little. I need some space, and I'd rather not lay in a puddle of your sweat, no offense."

Dimitri chuckled but he moved without another word, bringing the worst of the drenched sheets with him. It must have been chilly and didn't smell the most pleasant, but Claude didn't want to draw any attention by trying to find a change of sheets at this hour. Taking off his jewelry and setting it on the table, Claude snuck in to claim the dry end of the bed.

"Will this work?" he asked, rolling over to face Dimitri. He probably seemed overdressed for the occasion next to Dimitri’s near-nudity, still wearing a light shirt, pants, and his dagger deftly hidden under his pillow when he removed the sash, but Dimitri didn’t comment on it.

The king's hand hovered over his face. Then, feather-light, he laid it on Claude’s cheek, somehow as intimate a gesture as it was chaste. 

"It's perfect," Dimitri whispered, staring into Claude's eyes.

Swallowing the knot of feelings he didn't dare to unravel right now, Claude threw a hand over Dimitri's arm and muttered, "Good. Get some rest. Good night, Dimitri."

"Good night, Claude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful artwork of the guys pining by @vanillatales:  
[Dimitri stopping Claude from leaving](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8klKepn9Aq/?igshid=1hu7ktielp57q)


	5. Mending and Making New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Felix find time to talk alone. Dimitri learns a little more about what Claude may be facing in Almyra.

When Dimitri opened his eye to the sight of Claude’s handsome features slackened by sleep and his hair a downy nest coating the pillow, it felt like one of the times Sylvain had backed him against a wall and pinned his wrists. The crest of Blaiddyd, for all its strength, couldn’t free him from his spiking pulse or return his stolen breath.

Claude glowed with the first rays of dawn. He was the ever-vigilant moon hiding within soft flesh to watch over Faerghus’ king. He made the sun’s warmth burst within Dimitri, his presence as refreshing and ephemeral as a breeze flowing across the plains during midday. Goddess spare Dimitri for his blasphemy, but the sight before him inspired more reverence than any painting he’d ever seen of her grace. 

His hand hovered over Claude’s peaceful face. It shivered at the half-dreamed memory of touching Claude’s skin before they took their repose, the cheek butterfly-soft beneath his clumsy fingertips. Claude’s stubby whiskers after a day of growing had scratched at the king’s palms. The silky ridges of his braid skirted across the tender skin between Dimitri’s knuckles, making him want to roll it between his fingers to feel its weight. 

Dimitri remembered, and he yearned. 

But he was more than his beastly urges. He would not violate the trust Claude had placed in him by staying here at Dimitri’s request.

There was a knock at the door. Hand recoiling into his chest with something akin to guilt, Dimitri rolled toward the sound in time to watch the door swing open to reveal an irate Felix standing in its threshold. 

The swordsman’s flinty eyes darted between Dimitri and the sleeping prince beside him. He’d barged into Sylvain’s room too many times during their Academy days with the man only half-dressed and his side piece for the night even less so to look embarrassed. Back then, Dimitri had tried to be kind to the ladies when he accidentally walked in on them in a compromising position. Felix never did. He said if they cared about their pride, they wouldn’t have slept with Sylvain to begin with. 

By the way Felix was looking at the two of them, he was thinking it again now, though Dimitri wasn’t sure which one of them he thought was the shameless side piece.

_ “You know,” _ a whisper that sounded too much like Felix echoed.  _ “You’ve always been the boar.” _

“Felix…” Dimitri began, whispering in hopes it wouldn’t disturb the still-sleeping Claude.

Felix didn’t take his cue. “Get up, Dimitri. If we want to get any training in, we need to do it before the sun gets any higher, unless you’d prefer to fry.”

He was right, which came as no surprise. Dimitri hadn’t made Felix an advisor out of some misguided sentimentality.

His eye dropped to Claude. The other man hadn’t stirred yet.

“Are you certain we need to spar this morning? This was supposed to be a time for relaxation as well as a diplomatic visit. Perhaps sleeping in for one day would be good,” Dimitri murmured. He believed the words coming out of his mouth as little as Felix did.

“You’re not planning to sleep any longer, so don’t waste my time lying to me. Besides, the only relaxation you’ve ever craved is a spear in your hand.” Thinking of Claude only an arm’s length away, Dimitri flushed. Felix groaned, a similar burn hugging the tips of his ears. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not some gutter-minded reprobate like Sylvain, and you’d better not become one either.”

“Let me at least wake him before we go. Claude said he wanted to take us on a hunting trip today.”

A spark of interest flickered on Felix’s face. “...Fine. I’ll meet you in the hall. Don’t be too long.” He glared in Claude’s direction. “I’d rather get our talk about  _ this _ over with as quickly as possible.”

“Felix, it’s not…” Dimitri tried to explain.

“Later. Hurry up.” Felix slammed the door behind him, the king wincing at the sound.

“I see he’s still a ray of sunshine in the morning. Too bad the smiles from last night couldn’t stick around until today,” Claude whined into his pillow. He yawned and stretched, moaning while sleep-addled limbs slid across the sheets. Dimitri forced his eye toward the ones pooled at his own waist. “Did you sleep okay?”

Dimitri nodded. “Thanks to you.”

"Don't thank me too much. All I did was fall asleep," Claude chuckled, propping himself up on an elbow.

Dimitri wanted to tell Claude how wonderful it was to wake up next to him, but he’d learned that particular laugh from Claude was his way of expressing discomfort. The king cleared his throat. "About this morning and the hunting trip…"

Claude shooed him with one hand, using the other to stifle another yawn. "Go ahead with Felix and do your morning stabbing things routine. I'm going to need a little time to get our horses and provisions ready anyway."

Dimitri debated if it was time to talk to the man in his bed about what had happened last night or the desire that had plagued him since he first saw Claude’s true smile. The heat in Dimitri’s blood was near to bursting, made all the more visceral by laying so close. 

Would telling Claude be selfish? Somewhere within his private touches and church bell laughter, did Claude harbor a passion for Dimitri that could compare to his dreams? Was it unreasonable to wish he could become one of those dreams?

Whatever the case, keeping Felix waiting wasn’t a good idea.

“Alright. I’ll see you soon, Claude. Thank you again.”

Rolling from the bed, Dimitri changed into his rugged hunting and sparring clothes. He didn’t dare check if Claude was still staring at him as he threw earth-toned fabric over his far too exposed body, grateful that facing away would hide the morning excitement he couldn’t control. Surely Claude would understand, being a man himself, but given the illicit touch he had almost indulged in this morning, Dimitri couldn’t shake the feeling of shame.

He waved a farewell to Claude when he finished, but the prince appeared to have rolled over and gone back to sleep. Dimitri’s disappointment almost overcame his gratitude for a clean exit.

Reunited outside, Dimitri trailed behind Felix’s confident steps. He was too preoccupied with watching the advisor’s long ponytail swish behind him with every step like the agitated tail of a cat to give thought to where they were going or how Felix knew the way. The man had a nose for combat. Wherever there was fighting within the palace, he’d be able to sniff it out.

As it turned out, Dimitri could have sniffed it out himself.

“Aren’t these the grounds we were at yesterday?” he wondered as they stepped into the massive arena Claude had called the Pit. 

Empty like this, their breaths echoing against the stone balconies up into the open sky, Dimitri found it hard to imagine there were enough people in all of Faerghus to fill these seats for a tournament. When his only contact with Almyra was through Claude’s letters, it was easy to forget how much larger it was than his kingdom. Larger than all of Fodlan, even.

“They are. They’re ideal for training within the palace when there are no events. Anything from that rack is for public consumption.” Felix nodded toward a wood structure that ran half the length between two of the pillars, filled with practice weapons. Swords, axes, clubs, and bows - all the favored weapons of Almyra. 

Without a spear in sight, Dimitri reached for a blunted broadsword instead. It reminded him of his younger days, before experimenting with weapons other than polearms became a liability in the strict timelines of war. 

“When did you learn about this place?” Dimitri asked. He sliced through the air to get used to the weight of a stockier weapon.

“Last night,” Felix answered. 

He picked up a lighter blade. Satisfied with its balance after a few strokes, he began burning through warmup katas. He moved with the same mindless speed and precision Dimitri had seen from the palace’s head baker while shaping morning bread for the whole castle. Breathtaking grace honed through years of practice.

Finishing up his stretches, Dimitri extended his blade toward Felix as an invitation. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself last night. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile so much.”

A twist of a grimace pulled at Felix’s face that Dimitri didn’t understand. Instead of explaining, the swordsman tapped their blades to start their match, then lunged, forcing his king on the defensive. The crack of their weapons crossing split the air like lightning. 

“Don’t talk to me of ‘enjoying myself’. You’re the one who had Almyra’s prince in your bed this morning,” Felix snarled. He shrugged off Dimitri’s guard, taking an aggressive step to his right to look for a new angle.

Dimitri followed, countering with a low strike despite his superior height. “I’m sorry you had to walk in on that. I know what it must have looked like,” Dimitri grunted as his blade hit air. Felix’s leg had pulled just out of the reach of the swing, then stomped forward for another vicious stab. Dimitri barely turned it aside in time. “...but I swear to you, nothing unseemly happened between Claude and me.”

Felix’s lip curled as if he’d been force-fed a creampuff. “All I want to know is why he was there.” He parried the arc of Dimitri’s swing deftly away from his neck. “You looked terrible when you left the party.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Determined to press his advantage as long as he could hold it against Felix, Dimitri slashed at him again.

The swordsman’s eyes sharpened. A hint of fear coiled around the song of battle in Dimitri’s blood. He knew that look. It was the one Felix wore when he found his perfect opening, preparing to end a battle with a strike so brutal and precise that his opponent wouldn’t see it coming until they were dead.

“Are you chasing your stepmother again?”

Dimitri’s guard dropped, but Felix didn’t dart in to tag his shoulder. He stared, unreadable, daring the king to pretend he didn’t know what Felix was talking about.

When he was a boy, he might have. But Dimitri was no longer naive enough to think that pretending would bring either of them anything other than more than misery. 

Although the end of the war and defeat of those responsible for Duscur had allowed most of Dimitri’s wounds from childhood to finally begin to scab over, it had left its share of new gashes. Not long after Claude had left for Almyra, Dimitri had spoken with Rodrigue about his conflicted feelings regarding his stepfamily. He hadn’t been expecting to learn there might have been some truth in Cornelia’s taunts about his stepmother before her death.

Patricia’s body had never been found. In a world where the dead could come back to life as soulless beasts raised by blood magic, orchestrating the slaughter of countless families including his own, that was dangerous. If Patricia, Edelgard’s mother and the only mother Dimitri had ever known, was one of them, she could have already been poised to wreak further havoc on Faerghus from the shadows.

So Dimitri researched. After he finished his councils and ceremonies for the day, he went to the library to read old ledgers long into the evening hours. He rooted around his father’s chambers to find his diaries and sent the newly promoted Ashe to search the dark crevices of Fhirdiad’s castle for any records from that time. Before long, Dimitri was forgetting to eat when Dedue or Felix wasn’t there to remind him. He took his obsession into his chambers, spending his nights deciphering the writing of his ancestors and countrymen instead of sleeping. 

Three months from the end of the war, Dimitri’s headaches had returned. And with them came new ghosts.

Mercedes had made an emergency trip to Fhirdiad to enforce a new routine when Dimitri realized what was happening. It helped, but the need to find out what had happened to Patricia, whether she was responsible for Duscur, and selfishly, if she ever really loved him, never left his mind. 

His old friends were loathe to leave him alone after that. They feared he would spiral into madness again. If Dimitri wasn’t so desperate to make something of the freedom to choose his fate that Claude had given him, maybe he would have.

In the end, everyone had agreed that a trip to Almyra was a good idea to get Dimitri’s mind off of Fodlan’s troubles. No one said it aloud, but they must have thought both he and Felix needed an escape from their families.

“How would I chase my stepmother in Almyra? Nothing we’ve found points to her leaving Fodlan,” Dimitri replied at last, raising his blade as weakly as his voice.

Felix knocked it aside. “That doesn’t answer my question. Are you chasing her again, Dimitri?”

The concern with which he said his king’s name was enough to make Dimitri’s weapon tremble, hands white-knuckled around the grip as he willed his crest to be silent. Felix’s words should have been sharp. A whip’s crack against the boar’s hide to improve his behavior. Dimitri didn’t know how to navigate the space between them without biting words or savage blows to guide the way.

“No. I’m not chasing her,” he murmured. The rising sun was starting to make his clothes itch. 

“Tell me what happened.”

Dimitri lowered his sword, sighing. Mercedes had told him that he needed to reach out to one of them whenever his conditioned worsened, no matter how temporarily. A precaution to avoid another major episode. Dimitri had hoped his mind wouldn’t betray him until after this trip was over, but his life had never been known for its mercy. 

“I had nightmares about El,” Dimitri stumbled over the nickname, “...Edelgard. The heat and the alcohol made it worse. Claude happened to hear me and woke me up, which is why he was in my bed. He wanted to help me sleep soundly.”

Felix contemplated in ominous silence, tapping his sword against his palm. “Does he know about the dream or your condition?”

“No. I didn’t tell him.” 

The political suicide of detailing his weaknesses to another country’s prince aside, Dimitri had been too ashamed last night to admit he’d started down that path again. Not with Claude being so kind and so very close. 

Dimitri raised his blade again, waiting for Felix to do the same. Another calculating, too-still stare answered him instead. The Felix Dimitri knew, the one he grew up with and apart from and back together again like a sapling knocked over by storms yet too stubborn to stop growing, that Felix did not tolerate long silences and absence of motion. He was always on the move, always carving a path forward with sword in hand.

Lately, it seemed like Dimitri’s advisor had become another man altogether.

“Good,” Felix decided at last. “Choosing not to tell him was...wise.” 

Dimitri gaped at the praise.

Felix frowned, taking up a ready stance at last. “What?”

To answer might get Dimitri’s head bitten off, but it was better than seeing his oldest friend become someone he didn’t recognize. Was this how Felix had felt during the past nine years, watching him lose himself to revenge?

“Felix...Is something wrong?” Dimitri asked gently.

Felix’s sword drew back with his scowl. “Not more than usual. Why?”

“Forgive me for saying it, but you’ve been unusually subdued lately,” Dimitri ventured, bracing himself for the coming storm. His arms ached in the anticipation of Felix’s heavy sword strikes.

The only storm that came was in Felix’s eyes, as frigid as copper rings dropped in a blizzard. He lowered his blade, yet it was Dimitri who felt vulnerable.

"Do you think I'm incapable of kindness and restraint?" Felix muttered.

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant,” Felix retorted. Shocked, Dimitri lowered his sword as well, while Felix pushed on, “You can't imagine me holding my tongue when something upsets me, so you think I'm lying to you. You think I’m not myself."

"I only meant that you've been speaking to me differently since I became king. I'm not ungrateful, but..."

Felix didn’t let him finish. "But you think I'm going to stab you in the back. Is that it?"

"No!” Dimitri cried, and it was the truth. He had never thought Felix would stab him in the back, not once in all their years together, even when he deserved it the most. Felix had always been as stalwart as the Fraldarius name, like Glenn and his father before him. “It’s only…” Dimitri shook his head, driving his sword into the dirt at his feet. “I want you to feel like you can trust me with the truth as you have in the past, even when I didn’t want to hear it. I value your friendship more than your vassalage, Felix."

The swordsman’s eye narrowed to dagger-sharp slits "...is that what you think friendship is? What we had before?"

"I believe friendship involves telling the truth,” Dimitri said. He smiled to convey the seriousness of his desire to nourish their damaged relationship, hoping it looked acceptably beseeching to Felix. He wished he had Claude’s way of speaking through facial expressions as well as words.

Felix’s hands creaked around the leather-wrapped hilt of his weapon. He glared at the sword Dimitri had buried, no doubt annoyed at how little care the king was taking with his borrowed gear. 

"You're such an idiot, Dimitri,” he grumbled.

“Ah, sorry, let me…” The king pulled the blade free again, wiping the flat of it with his tunic.

“If I swear to you that I won't lie to you, will you stop looking at me like I’m a stranger?” Felix growled. Dimitri looked up at him, but his amber eyes were still trained on the dirt. “I’ll never stop telling you what you need to hear, whether you like it or not. But being more careful in how I speak doesn’t mean I’m not still me.”

The way Felix said it as if ensnared in a tangle of vines and trying to separate the thorny, rotting strands from the ones that bore fruit, made the king ache in sympathy. He’d heard Felix speak like that before. Usually to Rodrigue, shouting angry words about not wanting to become his brother or Faerghus’ next shield.

The problem was, Dimitri didn’t understand the change happening in Felix. The softer words that should warm instead of worry, the ease with which he’d acclimated to Almyra in a matter of days, the smiles he rarely found in Faerghus coming freer now that he had left its borders. It all made some tiny, childish part of Dimitri quake with the fear of being left behind.

It scared him, but he would never turn his back on his oldest friend. He swallowed the feeling and tried on a smile.

"...thank you," Dimitri said.

A frustrated rumble simmered in Felix’s chest.

"Stop that," he commanded, gesturing towards his king with his blade.

Dimitri blinked. "Thanking you?"

"Trying to hide how you feel to spare me,” Felix spat and took two sharp steps forward. He was in Dimitri’s face now, chin inclined to force all the king’s attention on him. “I don't need your protection. If I’m to be your advisor, you need to trust me with the truth. What are you thinking?"

"I…" Dimitri grit his teeth, unable to drop his eye to gather his thoughts. He wasn’t sure where to begin with everything he felt about Felix.

Felix could be patient when fighting with steel, but the impetuousness of his youth had never completely faded from his personal affairs. His thin features honed to a deadly point in front of Dimitri’s remaining eye. “I have no interest in serving a king incapable of listening. Will you only speak to me if I call you a boar again?”

Shame, anger, and longing blended into a tsunami of unnamed emotion within Dimitri.

"I miss you," the king blurted out. "I know you don’t want to hear it, but I've missed you for a long time, Felix. I know you were doing the right thing after…"

His voice failed him.

"Say it," Felix prompted.

Grimacing, Dimitri carried on, "Even though part of me knew you were right to despise me after the rebellion, having you hate me so much...hurt. But the pain was better than losing you entirely, which is what I fear will happen now. I miss your insults, as strange as that may sound. They meant you still cared enough about me to make sure I wouldn’t give in to the beast again.”

It was Felix who stepped away first. He turned his back to head over to the weapon rack, a deliberate choice to hide his face because he’d never ended a sparring session so soon in his life. “Is that how you see me? A lion tamer whose only purpose is to keep you in check?”

“Isn’t that how you see yourself?” Dimitri wondered, resisting the urge to invade Felix’s space.

"Maybe once upon a time.” The flash of one fiery eye held Dimitri’s as he glanced back over his shoulder. “It's true that you're capable of being a monster, and you need to be vigilant. But if I was a lion tamer back then, I was a poor one."

"Felix..."

"Let me speak.” Dimitri held his tongue. Sighing, Felix turned to face him again. “You needed something I couldn't give, and I hated it. No matter how strong I was, no matter how I yelled for my friend back, I couldn't break through your armor. Eventually, I got more obsessed with breaking your mask than helping you. A lion tamer who beats his lion to get it to behave is no better than a despot." He slammed his sword into the ground, blade first. “I am a soldier, Dimitri. I want to fight for what I believe in.”

It slowly dawned on Dimitri what he was supposed to say as Felix stared at him, arms crossed. Five words that Felix had been waiting to hear for nine years. Maybe longer. A question that the Kingdom never asked of its subjects, especially not its knights, but its king could change that forever, starting today.

He finally understood what his father meant when he said good advisors would tell you what to do, but the best could show you without a word.

“What do you believe in?” Dimitri asked.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had made Felix smile, but the swordsman was smiling now, a slight expression but as powerful and clear as his voice ringing its affirmation across the empty arena. It was the vow of a knighthood he’d refused to give in Faerghus. One of a new era.

"I believe that it is not honorable to lay your life down for another. I believe there is no such thing as a good death on the battlefield. I believe in a world where men like me aren’t needed anymore. I believe in a peaceful Faerghus. A peaceful world,” he amended. Felix inclined his head again, but this time it was with pride rather than a challenge. “I believe in you, Dimitri, and your ability as king to change our kingdom into something better.”

“You...believe in me?” Dimitri parroted, his voice a spectral remnant of its usual luster.

Felix scoffed. “I wouldn’t waste my time on you if I didn’t. I’m not so blind in my hatred to not see how you’ve changed, even if you still have a long way to go.”

“Thank you, Felix,” Dimitri said, and this time, he meant it. A grin crept over his face, his advisor’s jaw working harder with every tick wider it got. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far if not for you.”

Felix waved him off and ripped his sword from the ground. “Save all that sappy sentiment for Claude.”

“Claude?” Dimitri thought back to that morning and the compromising position Felix found them in, possible seconds from becoming more so as Dimitri yearned to brush the prince’s bangs from his eyes. “I thought I made it clear that we’re merely friends.” 

“Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what you think,” Felix muttered. He rolled his eyes when Dimitri’s confused eyebrows didn’t unscrew themselves. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, or what he’s thinking half the time, but any man with eyes can see you’ve been more than friends for a while now." Felix raised his sword to start another bout. “Don't mess this up, Dimitri."

"I won't,” Dimitri vowed automatically, though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to or how to take Felix’s cryptic statement that they were more than friends. If it were anyone other than his advisor saying it, he’d assume that they were being obtuse about his insistence that they had done nothing but sleep in the same bed last night. Dimitri mirrored Felix’s stance. “It would be easier not to disappoint if I knew what Claude wanted from me."

They tapped blades. This time Felix didn’t immediately dive towards his opponent.

"If the talk from last night is to be believed, he needs your help taking the throne from his father,” he declared. When the king’s grip slackened, struck by the implications of that statement like a shield to the head, Felix took the opportunity to dart in and clip an elbow before Dimitri could regain his senses enough to parry.

The king hissed, beating back Felix’s blade. “Claude’s planning to usurp his father? Why?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” The advisor’s arms shook from fending off Dimitri’s strength. They refused to purposefully let their crests loose in spars like this. “Birthright isn’t the only way to gain a crown in Almyra, and Claude has some fierce competition.”

Dimitri swung again, shattering Felix’s guard. The swordsman sidestepped the worst of his king’s blow, only the tip skimming his knee. 

“So he wants the crown before someone else can take it?” Dimitri deduced.

Grunting an affirmation, Felix stepped in, using the leg which hadn’t been tagged. “Most people expect that he’ll be ousted at the festival this week. His time is running out.”

“How do you know all that?” Their blades locked in a stalemate again. Felix wheeled out of the way, letting Dimitri win the battle of strength, so he could press inside the range of the king’s longer limbs.

“You might be here as a social call, but I take my job seriously,” Felix growled. He rammed his hilt into Dimitri’s ribs. Grunting in pain, the king grabbed his advisor to shove him back. Felix hit the ground in a crouch. “I wasn’t going to wait for Claude to tell us what’s happening here on his schedule.”

"You have a fair point. He hasn't been especially forthcoming,” Dimitri grumbled, waiting for his advisor to stand and his heart rate to calm. "So what have you learned?"

Felix shook out his bruised knee. "No one seems to like the fact he disappeared to Fodlan for so long. Most people thought he was dead.”

"Most people thought I was dead for five years, too," Dimitri reminded him.

"Yes, but Almyra doesn't want Claude the way Faerghus wanted you. Even the ones who don’t think he’s an illegitimate heir because his mother is from Fodlan call him a coward for running away to another country. He’s not a war hero to them. If Claude intends to take the crown, he’ll have to find a way to win the people over."

The thought of a country rejecting Claude, the genius leader who had saved countless lives and brought hope to countless more through his tireless pursuit of a better world, while Faerghus had thrown itself at Dimitri’s feet after five years of abandonment and slaughter sparked rage within the king. Their lack of justice, of appreciation for such a good man, was disgusting. It was like defending Dedue all over again, but Claude was supposed to be their prince.

_ “Boar.” _ Glenn’s cackle breezed through his mind.

That’s right. Vengeance would help no one, not Claude nor anyone else caught between the hatred of Leicester and Almyra, just like it had not helped Duscur and Faerghus. If the world had no concept of justice for someone like Claude, then the only answer was to change the world.

Dimitri closed his eye to breathe and Felix didn’t question it.

"So who else is trying to capture the throne?" Dimitri asked.

"His cousin, Arman.” Perhaps a relative of the infamous Aunt Leila the queen seemed unexcited to meet yesterday. “And a general named Farah. Both are coming to the festival.”

"Wow, I didn’t realize you had so much talent as a spy, Felix! I might need to recruit you.” Claude’s cheerful voice rang out across the arena, far too loudly to be talking about spies in a public space. “Sorry for the wait, guys.”

Dimitri’s eye reopened to see the prince approaching them through the amphitheater’s widest entrance. He had dressed in what Dimitri assumed were Almyran hunting clothes, layers loose enough to allow full freedom of movement, and had three horses behind him on leads, each already fitted with filled saddlebags and loaded quivers.

Felix scowled at the intrusion. “Talking to people isn’t spying.”

“Maybe not on its own. But that’s some pretty impressive information gathering you managed for one night,” Claude replied with an easy shrug.

He offered one of the leads to Felix. The swordsman glowered, then huffed and swiped the rope up in his non-dominant hand. He retreated towards the weapons rack to put away the borrowed sword. “I’ll do what I have to if you’re going to keep secrets.”

“Then I suppose it’s good for all of us that I have plenty of time to explain today. I wouldn’t want to see you at your worst. But first, let’s go catch ourselves some breakfast.” Claude’s fathomless eyes sparkled with his smile as he handed over the other lead to Dimitri. “I’m starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ A look at the contenders for the Almyran throne](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8bWebCn_2v/?igshid=zaugvtx0suic) from this chapter, drawn by the incredible @vanillatales!
> 
> Hi everyone! A couple quick notes as we get into the holiday season:
> 
> 1) I'm not sure what my updates will be like over the next month or so since I have a lot of family obligations through January, and both Dimitri and Dimiclaude weeks are coming up in that timeframe. I hope to have some writing up on ao3, but I can't promise how much of it will be Emerald Moon AU related until things settle down. Thanks for being patient!
> 
> 2) @vanillatales created this beautiful piece of artwork for the first chapter of Emerald Moon: https://twitter.com/vanillatales/status/1202283451937968128 If you haven't yet, go check them out on Twitter!
> 
> 3) As always, I'm so grateful for each and every one of you readers, commenters, and other supporters! Whatever you celebrate, or even if you don't, I hope you all have a happy holiday season.


	6. Hunt for the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio goes on a morning hunt outside the walls of Pasar. Claude reveals his plan to seize the throne.

Claude never thought he’d be grateful to his aunt for anything other than teaching him how to recognize an assassin at a party (contrary to popular belief, it was usually the ones with charming smiles that made him feel welcome rather than the shady warriors skulking in the shadows who’d knife him in the ribs), but her imminent betrayal provided a welcome distraction from Dimitri’s magnetism. If not for the tigers prowling in the grass, it would have been too easy to dwell on the tremble in the king’s protests upon Felix’s interruption this morning or the swell between Dimitri’s legs that he didn’t turn fast enough to hide. 

He was a dangerous temptation. Claude had wanted to drag the king back to bed and taste the suffering echoed on his skin until it bled to sunkissed pleasure. He wanted to offer the ties on his dagger to bind them, heedless of the future he’d be throwing away. He was one passionate, tragic moment away from leading them both to ruin.

Yes, it was good it had not come to that. Claude could hear his mother’s nagging in his ear, reminding him that his enemies would rend his dreams limb from limb if given the slightest glimpse of his true heart.

They would find no weakness in their future king.

Unfortunately, Claude wasn’t finding their weaknesses either. Farah had yet to arrive for the festival and his Aunt Leila remained sequestered in her quarters with Arman, who was tending to her for the day. They claimed travel sickness, as though the woman hadn’t traveled from coast to coast once a month, every month since she was old enough to understand the word ‘lobbying’. The pair was clearly up to something, but without gluing himself to the palace all day, Claude had no way of determining what. 

He smiled at the guards and sent his well-wishes for her quick recovery, masking the churning dread of not knowing the next move your opponents were going to make. He hated being the one with less information.

For Claude, there was only one move open thanks to his limited pieces on the board, and he feared they had already figured it out. He needed to cement the role of Dimitri and Felix in his scheme. That meant abandoning the palace for somewhere that they could speak without moles around every corner, though leaving was an admission of his plan in its own right.

That was how Claude ended up in the training grounds with three horses and bows, impressed by the breadth of what Felix had learned during their celebration the previous night. The man was full of surprises as an advisor. Felix didn’t have Sylvain’s insight or oratory skill, but Almyran custom and a cultivated instinct to shield his king suited him well.

He was turning out to be a lucky draw in Claude’s otherwise sparse hand.

"You aren't taking Estera?" Dimitri asked as he mounted his horse. 

He looked lordly even in hunting leathers, the straight-backed riding style of Kingdom nobility more majestic than the half-hunched lean favored in Almyra for charging across the plains with a bow in hand. If the king felt any discomfort using foreign tack, he hid it well.

Felix was another story. Claude had noted back at the academy that though Felix could ride, he held none of the enthusiasm for it that his peers did. While Ingrid, Sylvain, and Dimitri often bonded with their steeds in the proud tradition of Faerghus knights, Felix only set foot in the stables when he had to travel, choosing an easy-tempered black gelding to speed his march.

Claude chuckled at Felix’s grumbling about the impractical cut of Almyran saddles. Avoiding the razor-sharp glare thrown his way, the prince turned to hand a hunting bow that was shorter for used on horseback to Dimitri. “As much as I want to let her stretch her wings, I figured I should give you both a fighting chance. It wouldn’t be sporting of me to demand an archery contest from wyvern-back when I doubt either of you have practiced flying in five years.”

Dimitri’s eyebrow quirked as he took the bow, testing its draw. “I never thought I’d witness the day when Claude von Riegan turned down an advantage. Are you certain you’re feeling well enough to hunt?”

“I can’t be getting too predictable, now can I?” Claude trotted past the king to hand over Felix’s bow with a cheeky smile. “Maybe all your talk of fairness and honor has finally started to wear off on me.”

“Then I’m glad I could be a positive influence on your life, as you have been on mine.”

It was meant as a playful jab, teasing between friends, but Dimitri’s unconscious sincerity sent Claude’s stomach freewheeling like a wyvern without a harness. Thank goodness for Felix having no patience for their banter.

“If you’re both done, we have hunting to do,” he growled, both horse and rider restless in the center of the arena.

“Right, right, don’t want to let you get hungry or you might hunt us for breakfast instead.” Claude winked as he orbited the pair.

“Will you get going already?”

“Of course, Sir Advisor. My deepest apologies for making you wait.” Claude bowed, mocking, in his saddle. Felix squirmed like he wanted to cross his arms but was afraid he might fall if he took his hands off the reins. Dimitri smothered his amusement beneath a feigned cough.

Taking mercy on the bitter swordsman, Claude led them through the rings of Pasar to the south. Each gate passed was more humble than the last, from gilded to iron to wood, but the prince’s entourage had no issues with the guards. They were headed towards what locals called the Den of Beasts. The poorest quarter of Pasar, where men and vermin squabbled over the scraps thrown to them like crazed animals who’d eat their young if they were hungry enough. The lair of miscreants swarmed with guards rather than citizens, perfect when you wanted to keep snoops who weren’t on the palace payroll at bay.

Dimitri’s eye roamed across the grounds while they rode, halting at the ominous double-thick gate that separated Pasar’s lowest class from the rest of the city. "We’re heading through there? What’s on the other side?"

"The slums. Most people in the palace would tell you not to go in if you want to leave with your lives." 

As a child, Claude had been warned that monsters lived behind that wall. Like any young explorer faced with forbidden danger, he’d been curious, but no guard would let him see if the rumors were true no matter how he pleaded or tried to sneak past. Only as an adult, having heard stories from Cyril about the abandoned people beyond his bejeweled home, did Claude realize the only beasts who lived there were of the palace’s making. 

Felix growled, “And yet you’re leading us through the heart of it. You had better have a good reason for this, Claude.”

“I do. And you won’t be in any danger. The people beyond the wall are desperate, but harming us would only call the palace’s wrath upon them.”

"I see." Dimitri nodded, his eye distant. 

He watched the decrepit streets for signs of life as they made their short trek through the poor quarter. This was the only part of Pasar that truly felt like a desert, its buildings half-rubble and life hidden from the sun. No river flowed through this part of town. The palace's official stance was that it was so they could care for the less fortunate, properly purifying water for drinking in ways the lower classes could not, but Claude had read the histories of Pasar before this area was built. 

Hundreds of years ago, there had been a terrible drought. The people suffered, as they always did in times of scarcity, and the common laborers most of all. When they saw the nobility thriving while they collapsed in the heat, they decided to take action. A few revolutionaries poisoned the water supply upstream in hopes they could drive out the current king and instate their own ruler.

In the end, their stunt only killed the palace servants. Anyone with a title had been flying their water in from the east for months. 

Angered by the people's recklessness, the Den of Beasts was built with the full support of those not involved in the incident. Most common laborers were moved towards the coast to prevent easy access to the city's water supply in the future, and those deemed too threatening were moved here, a wasteland tightly controlled by the palace under the guise of helping the less fortunate.

A window slammed shut nearby and Dimitri’s horse’s ears flicked in annoyance at the loud sound. The king could hold his tongue no longer. “Would it be possible to have our hunting bounty donated to them? I know it isn't enough to keep them fed, but I'm certain between the three of us we can catch more than we will eat alone."

He tactfully said nothing about the previous night's feast and the excess of food available.

Claude had not forgotten how Dimitri once fell to his knees before a humble miner from Duscur, nor the stories he told of living in the slums, without food or shelter to call his own. It should have been no surprise that struggling Almyrans would know his kindness as well.

Dangerous admiration bloomed in the archer’s chest again.

“Of course. What kind of prince would not care for his people?” Claude asked. A rhetorical question because Dimitri would be devastated to learn the truth of his uniqueness.

The king’s sad smile showed he already knew. “Many nobles embrace power without responsibility. It gladdens me to know you are not among their number. I have always appreciated your capacity for compassion in how you pursue your dreams.”

_ That’s because of what you taught me _ , Claude thought.

“Easy there, your Kingliness, or you’re going to give me a big head,” he joked and spurred his horse to a quicker pace as the road evened out.

Behind them, Felix’s discomfort overflowed with a harsh sigh. “Must you both keep running your mouths? Hunting is meant to be a silent pursuit.”

“You want to hunt here? I didn’t know you liked the taste of rat so much. I hear they get as big as cats near the sewers.”

The bit-into-a-raw-onion look on both of the Faerghus men's faces won a laugh from Claude and the quickest exit he'd ever made from the city.

Outside, the Almyran countryside was quiet. While the northern reaches of Pasar bustled with trade and travel for the upcoming festival, the south was barren, without a single draft wyvern flying overhead. Their ultimate destination lay near the juncture of the Yandeh and Araz Rivers, where the basin of life pulsed strongest in the west. However, they wouldn’t be able to follow the main road along the Yandeh River from this side. In front of them were scrublands, an emptiness with little more than rodents, bugs, and thorn bushes that barely reached their ankles off into the horizon.

It would be a long, boring journey made longer with his reticent company. Claude mentioned the travel rations he’d packed before they left, hoping for light breakfast conversation, but they ate in silence other than a brief thanks. He missed Ashe’s convivial banter to break up the monotony. 

Thankfully, Dimitri’s curiosity overwhelmed him when they were an hour into their journey and had not seen a single stand of trees. "I've been meaning to ask - where does Almyran pine needle tea come from?"

"Did you want to take some back? I never thought it would be a favorite of yours," Claude admitted. From what he’d observed, Dimitri preferred the flavors and textures of his youth, and although Claude had managed to get his hands on some pine needles at the Academy, he couldn’t imagine it was a staple in Fhirdiad.

“I was considering purchasing a box from the source, but it’s not my favorite,” Dimitri clarified. His eye flitted towards their other companion. "It’s Felix's. It has been ever since childhood.”

Claude craned his head over his shoulder to address Felix who was scowling at his king for his loose tongue. “Wait, you actually drank some as a kid? In the Kingdom? I mean, I realize your family’s pretty well off, but I didn’t think Almyra had any trade routes with Faerghus. It must have been hard to get your hands on it.”

“My father gave it to me,” Felix groused.

“By which he means he stole it from his father," Dimitri chimed in, always eager to share embarrassing stories where he wasn’t the punchline. “He bragged about raiding Rodrigue’s secret stash for weeks. I believe he even claimed it was the ‘good stuff’ because it looked like it had been stored there for years.”

Felix huffed, urging his horse forward to better glower at his king. “ _ You _ were the one who thought tea was like wine and improved with age, not me.”

Claude interrupted the imminent fraternal quarrel, "Hold up. Your dad got his hands on Almyran tea? From where?"

"He said it was a wedding present from an old friend that he hadn’t wanted to misplace." Felix shook his head with a sneer. "As if I wouldn't see through his deception. Whoever gifted it to him, he disliked them and their present."

Claude had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what old not-friend in Almyra Rodrigue had gotten that tea from.

Oblivious to Claude’s puzzling, Dimitri returned to his original question. "In any case, it's hard to believe the desert can sustain pine trees. The needles are from pine, are they not?"

“Almyra isn’t all desert,” Claude explained. He swept his hand toward the rising run. "Everything east of the capital are plains and forests. Most of the pine needles we harvest for tea come from out east, near Matys.” Dimitri nodded, though he’d never heard of the city before. Claude elaborated, “Matys is where General Farah’s from. They’re busy fighting another war over there, more ferocious than the one at Fodlan’s Locket.”

“Who’s General Farah?” the king mumbled, trying to place the name.

“One of my competitors for the throne Felix was talking about. It’s General Farah the Victorious if you want to be proper about it.” Dimitri shifted his eye away, sensing he was being teased about his overbearing formality. Claude softened the barb with a chuckle. “In any case, I've never met her, but I've heard good things.”

“Hm...and the other?” Brows tight with curiosity, Dimitri's gaze darted back to Claude. “Your cousin is planning to become King as well?”

“Yeah, that’d be Arman. He’s the reason I needed to take you out the back way. That guy can squeeze information out of a rock and there are too many talkative rocks in the palace.” It was a weak joke. To end the awkward silence filled with buzzing insects rather than his companions' laughter, Claude cleared his throat. “Anyway, Arman’s not as decorated in battle as Farah is, but his mother is my dad’s sister, so the whole royal bloodline and political training thing has won him a lot of support.”

Dimitri's frown deepened. “You’re the king’s son. Surely that counts for something.”

“It isn’t like Fodlan, your Royalness. There are no crests here. Popularity means a lot more than blood, and outsiders are pretty universally disliked in Almyra.”

Dimitri licked his lips. He seemed prepared to launch into an idealistic speech about crests not determining a man’s worth and how Claude was no more an outsider than his father, pretending that a drop of non-Almyran blood wasn't enough to condemn him to a life of otherness. The king shook his head to stop those thoughts from spilling out. 

“And that is what you want to change," Dimitri said instead. "You want Almyra to understand other countries are no less human than they are. To foster respect between the peoples your parents called home as children."

Sudden vulnerability singed Claude’s nerves like the Almyran countryside under the midday sun, so dry that a single candle could raze everything to ash. He shrugged and bit into a Noa Fruit, hoping the cool liquid could soothe the fire inside him. “Something like that. And considering Aunt Leila has disapproved of my mom since day one, I can’t imagine what her son does with Almyra is going to help relations with Fodlan. He’s not such a terrible guy, but he’s got a bad habit of surrounding himself with people who leave something to be desired in the welcoming department. Take, for example, his right hand: Captain Salasi the Suncatcher.”

“Suncatcher? That’s an odd title. Is he a wyvern rider, too?”

“ _ The _ wyvern rider according to him. The youngest person to ever earn his Barbarossa armor and most decorated flier in the country. He earned his name by pulling some sort of stunt during an eclipse. I’m sure you’ll hear the story at the festival,” Claude drawled as if every Almyran didn’t know the full tale by heart. 

Salasi had led an assault on the Iron Lily, a floating fortress in the waters north of Almyra. He snuck into position through the clouds during the height of an eclipse. Then, as bonfire legends went, he caught the emerging sun on the tip of his arrow, rending the heavens in a flash of light so bright even the petals of the Iron Lily were forced to open. Claude suspected his victory had more to do with a bad year for fishing throwing off their schedules than divine intervention from the sun, but his version of the story hadn’t gotten much traction.

Speaking of the sun, it had reached the unfortunate height where it harshed against their eyes as they trekked eastward. Thankfully, that was not the only change in their scenery while they talked. The earth had cooled as they neared the juncture of the two rivers, sand and shrubs becoming grasses and the occasional tree. Birds cooed in the brush, the wind making long blades quiver as they whispered secrets to the droning insects.

“Here we are. You boys ready for a little fun?” Claude popped his bow off a shoulder, retrieving an arrow from his hip. He led his horse off the edge of the dirt trail in search of his prey.

The hungry gleam in Felix’s eyes had returned, his steed drawing up alongside Claude’s. “Tell us the rules already.”

“It’s simple. We try to bag as many birds as we can before the shadows grow shorter than an arm-length. Only midair shots are allowed to keep things sporting for our quarry.”

Dimitri’s pinched expression said he wondered how Claude could think hunting anything smaller than a deer was sporting for a middling bowman like himself. He opted for a more diplomatic question. “So we will flush and retrieve the birds on horseback? You don’t use dogs in Almyra?”

“We do, but I thought this would make it easier to talk. I owe you an...”

A pheasant flushed in a flurry of feathers. Half a second later, it dropped from the sky, an arrow through its chest. 

Claude’s eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know you could shoot, Felix.”

“Oh yes, Felix has had a talent for archery since we were children,” Dimitri chattered. His gestures became more animated as he bragged about his friend. “If you’d believe it, he used to do trick shots, too. Ah, do you remember the time Sylvain was juggling apples and you pegged one right out of the air?”

Claude anticipated a glare to be thrown at Dimitri for once again dwelling in the past, but Felix’s amber eyes stared somewhere over the horizon, toward the bird he’d felled, distant and fond. 

“What I remember is Ingrid yelling at us for wasting food until she lost her voice,” he muttered as he pushed further into the brush to retrieve the pheasant. Coming back to himself, he turned a merciless gaze on Claude. “If you were hoping for an easy victory, you won’t find one here.”

A rush not unlike the start of a sparring match livened Claude’s mood. 

“Such a shame.” He met Felix’s intense look with a toothy smile. “Ah well, if I can’t stack the deck, I guess I’ll just have to win fair and square.”

As Felix reached down for his prize, the flourishing land produced another bird from the depths of the grass. His head snapped towards the sky, too slow.

Claude’s shoulder ached as he pulled his bow, phantom pains a reminder of the wound that never healed right after Fhirdiad, but he still nailed the bird before Dimitri could even raise his weapon. Felix's aggressive gaze bored holes into the archer’s back.

It wasn’t Claude’s fault he had a reputation to uphold.

“So...you were telling us about someone named Salasi?” Dimitri interjected before the two were lost to rivalry. He sat with his bow sideways in his lap, a fist clenching around the grip marking his annoyance at being the only one without a count.

“Salasi?” Claude mumbled as he hopped off his horse to hunt for the bird he’d shot in the brush.

“The one who flew through an eclipse?”

Claude righted himself in the half-forgotten conversation. “Ah yes, Arman’s right hand,” 

“His right hand. You mentioned that term before. Is that his advisor?"

“Not exactly. More like his chosen captain of the guard.” Over there. A straight shaft not swaying with the wind. Letting out a successful holler, Claude scooped up his quarry before continuing with his clarification. “Oh, or better - his adjutant. You remember, like we had back at the Academy?" 

Dimitri nodded. “I remember. The classmates who followed our commands to support the front lines.”

Arrow retrieved and bird secure in his pack, Claude hauled himself back into the saddle. "Exactly, Well, in Almyra, anyone who wants the crown has to have someone who will fight alongside them when they face the current ruler in a trial. No king rules alone, as they say."

“Trial? As in trial by combat?” Dimitri wondered.

“Yes. It's a two-on-two match that decides who will rule Almyra.”

Felix might have been more focused on his wildcat-stalking of prairie birds than their conversation, but he couldn’t let that slide without a noise of derision. “So anyone can try to take the throne whenever they want? That's idiotic.”

Claude held back a scathing comment about the equal idiocy of a hereditary crest system to determine nobility. Fodlan was changing for the better now, and valuing strength over policy as Almyra did was admittedly not much better. “It isn’t so bad. A challenge can only be made once a year per person, and only Almyran-born citizens with a claim to the throne through blood or a recognized name are allowed to ask for a trial. Normally, challenges are rare. Right now is just a special case."

"Why's that?" Dimitri asked.

"Because the country has been dreading my crowning since I was born to a non-Almyran queen.” Claude kept his eyes glued to the horizon, letting his focus on the hunt keep too much emotion from slipping into his voice. “I left right when the challenges were starting to come. Now that I'm back, time is running out if they want to prevent me from seizing the throne. Everyone is betting on this festival week to decide the future of Almyra. Including me."

"If you need us to fight by your side, I would be honored to do so again."

It was touching, how readily Dimitri sprang to his defense. Claude wished it were so easy. The two of them together were unstoppable, a storm that could break any army that stood before them. 

But Almyra had its customs and outsiders were never part of them.

"As much as I would like to do the same, I'm afraid only Almyrans are allowed to participate in trials,” Claude muttered apologetically. “Right of the blood and all that. My mom can't fight with my dad in the match either."

"Ah..."

"I haven't seen anyone around here clinging to you," Felix drawled. "So who's your right hand?"

There it was. The question he'd been waiting for. "I'm still working on it. The hope is General Farah."

Felix bobbled in the saddle but didn't fall when his head whipped around, tragically depriving Claude of a juicy story to tell Sylvain in his next letter. "Are you insane? You’re trusting your fate to a woman you've never met who wants the same crown you do?"

"That's the idea,” Claude confirmed. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Mostly. She's interested in stopping some of Almyra's wars to focus on feeding the people at home, not so much the ruling Almyra part. She thinks the crown has been neglecting its people who aren’t warriors for too long. I’m inclined to agree."

Eye squinting at the clouds overhead, Dimitri hummed. "And what about Fodlan? You know I wish to support you in your ascension, but as king, I must think of my people first."

Claude smiled. It was comforting to know that Dimitri, for all his enduring companionship, still had his priorities in order.

"She probably has no thoughts about Fodlan at all since she was born on the other side of the country. I think the last time she was in Pasar, it was to receive her name from my father for her service two years ago.” An occasion he had missed thanks to Fodlan’s civil war. “There’s a good chance I might be able to convince her that working with Fodlan is the best way to get what she wants for Almyra’s people."

Pondering Claude’s answer, Dimitri raised a finger to tap at his chin. "I see. That's why you want her as your right hand. Assuming her ambitions don’t lie with the crown itself, she’s strong enough to fight beside you in your trial, she's respected as a general, she wants to support the people, and she won't get in the way of your desire to open Almyra’s borders."

"That's the hope. It also cuts down on my competition.” And it wasn’t as though other Almyrans were lining up to help Claude take his father’s throne. What few bridges he’d built as a child had been burnt after leaving for Fodlan, confirming every rumor about what a coward the tainted prince was. “But before I try to cozy up to her at the festival, I need to be sure I’m right. If she picked up some prejudices about Fodlan despite being on the east coast, I’ll need a new plan."

"And that's where we come in," Dimitri guessed.

His eye dropped, and Claude recalled the heartbreak in his voice when the king had accused Claude of only bringing him here as a pawn in his scheme.

“In part,” Claude hedged. “But I also just wanted to see you again.”

"I see…” A smile crept across Dimitri’s face. His cerulean eye lifted again, the joy of a clear summer sky shining inside. “It’s a remarkably a clever scheme, if too risky for my liking.”

His advisor, never far at hand nor short on opinions, countered on Claude’s behalf, "Less risky than letting Almyra fall into the hands of someone who will declare war on Fodlan."

The archer laughed. “You know, you're smarter than you look, Felix.”

"I'm also a better shot,” Felix boasted. He almost sounded like he believed he stood a chance of rivaling Claude’s marksmanship.

The prince grinned, nocking an arrow. “Don’t go getting too cocky. In case you’d forgotten, you didn’t keep that lead for long.”

“You speak as though you’ve ever had it.”

A sharp blow, blunted by the teasing upturn of Felix’s mouth. Curious to see the uptight swordsman almost smiling without the help of alcohol, but that was a mystery Claude could solve when he didn’t have something to prove.

He stilled, closing his eyes to focus on the rustle of wind that hid the movement of more birds in the tall grass. Claude strained to hear their arrhythmic shuffle breaking apart the steady whirr of a breeze across the plains. Nothing. Not even squawks and warbles from songbirds playing lookout. 

It was silent. Eerily silent. The kind of silent it only became when a large predator was preparing to strike. Had they made so much noise they’d cleared the area?

Survival instinct honed from five years of living in the wilderness seized Dimitri.

“Get down!” the king growled, lunging off his saddle to tackle Claude into the burrs below.

An arrow whizzed overhead so close they felt the breeze. Two grunts of pain echoed nearby. 

A body fell.

“Felix!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and thanks for your patience while I worked on other things and traveled over the holidays! I still have a few lingering engagements this month, but my goal is to stay focused on this story now that I'm back. 
> 
> As always, I'm way behind on comments, this time because they came in right as I was setting this aside. I hope you know I appreciate and read every last one of them! Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy meeting Claude's political enemies over the next few chapters.
> 
> Also, if the cliffhanger is driving you crazy, you can blame my Twitter followers for that. ;)
> 
> Speaking of people on Twitter, @vanillatales has made some beautiful comic illustrations for Viridian Sky that I've added to the notes of the previous chapters! You can check out [ the one for this chapter of Felix, Claude, and Dimitri riding through Pasar's slums](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8kh8GAnycW/?igshid=104kzjmg0cxr) as well as all the previous ones on their [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/laf_illustonly_2020/).


	7. A Challenge to the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and Dimitri deal with the people who injured Felix. Dimitri gets his first taste of Claude's world in Almyran politics.

Felix plummeted from his horse like a guardian angel whose wings had been torn from his back. One hand caught his fall while the other clutched his shoulder. It failed to keep blood from seeping through desperate fingers.

_ So much crimson _ .

Dimitri’s teeth pricked like fangs against his tongue. A pavlovian rage crawled under his skin, balking at the color of his enemies - of fire, death, and the Empire - spilling from a man who could have been his brother.

_ “Kill them _ ,” Lambert hissed in his son’s ear.  _ “Tear their throats out and rip them limb from limb before she takes him from you.” _

No. That was wrong. Edelgard was dead. There was nothing more she could take from him.

_ “Not her, boy. Patricia.” _

“Bastard clipped me,” Felix panted. 

His voice drowned out the vengeful ghost’s whispers, but it was too late to stop a seed of doubt from being planted, crawling from the dirt with suffocating vines. They suspected Patricia was alive somewhere - why not Almyra? Dimitri’s stepmother could have fled the country, sought out asylum where no one could follow and continued her plans from here. 

She would take everything from him.

_ I will not allow it. _

Felix scowled at Dimitri as he might a misbehaving dog. “Focus. You're not a mindless beast, so wipe that look off your face. It’s just a flesh wound.”

_ Not a beast?  _ The wrongness of Felix saying those words grated, but Dimitri clung to it anyway, remembering how to breathe without bones rattling in his lungs. There was work to be done. 

“Did you get him?” he gritted out.

“One of them. There’s another out there.” The angry blaze in Felix’s eyes enveloped Claude next. “What ambush did you lead us into?”

Claude glared back, and Dimitri felt a heat stir within him that didn’t belong on the battlefield. “I was trying to  _ avoid _ this. They’re assassins. Most likely hired by my cousin or my aunt.”

“You say that like it’s happened before,” Dimitri rumbled.

Claude produced a dagger from some hidden folds of his outfit in lieu of answering, a vicious, hooked thing with a moon carved on the handle and wrapped in blood-red twine. “There are bandages in your saddlebags. Get the wound wrapped,” he ordered like they were back in Fodlan, marching rank and file against the Empire.

But this was no battlefield for a soldier. There was no honor here, no battalions behind them. This was a game of predator and prey. One where Claude was a wyvern pretending his antlers belonged to a meek deer, flanked by two of the Kingdom’s most fearsome lions.

“And how am I supposed to do that without telling them exactly where we are?” Felix grunted. He removed his palm from the wound, grimacing at the red smeared across it.

Dimitri grabbed the hem of his shirt. “I can make a field dressing out of this.” The five years he had spent alone might have been blanketed in a bloody haze, but they had taught him how to survive with nothing. “Let me tear the bottom and…”

“No,” Claude interrupted. His eyes gleamed with the same impersonal coldness as Estera’s while on the hunt. “Call the horses. Stay low.”

“They can’t shoot through the grass,” Dimitri murmured, realizing the plan.

Hide in the grass, lure the assassin in, and kill them when they got close. It went against everything a Faerghus knight stood for. Claude would choose survival over honor, to deceive their enemies and stab them in the back like a common bandit. As the king of Faerghus, Dimitri should have opposed the plan on principle alone, and once upon a time, he would have.

Fortunate that the only subject who would bear witness to his indiscretion preferred practicality to chivalry.

“Do it, Felix. We won’t let them touch you,” Dimitri said.

“I don’t need you to protect me.” Felix raised his non-bloody hand to his lips. “Now get out of sight.”

Claude had already vanished into the greenery. Dimitri cut his own path to lie in wait, wincing as his boots crunched dead plants underfoot and his broad shoulders caught on sprawling shrub limbs. Nearby, Felix whistled loud enough to be heard across the entire plains. Dimitri stilled, crouching on his haunches, listening for the enemy.

The wind. 

Humming insects. 

A single bird behind him.

No, at his right.

_ Wait _ .

A body crashed through the grass from Dimitri's blind side, lunging at his throat.

“Damn, wrong one!” an unrecognizable voice snarled. It was muffled by clothing that covered every patch of their skin except their eyes. 

Dimitri caught the wrist of the hand clutching at his neck and twisted. It crunched like freshly cast plaster in his palm. The assassin’s other hand tried to slash at him with its dagger, but Dimitri plucked that wrist before he would swing, too, reveling in the cracking of wicked bones. 

They screamed.

“Who sent you?” Dimitri growled, towering above the scrambling assassin. Their terrified eyes glowed like drops of honey in the midday sun.

“I…” 

The king took a step closer. “Why would you try to kill your prince?”

“It’s just a job,” the assassin pleaded. “I don’t care about Prince Claude.”

“Don’t care?”

“Please...please, just let me go. I promise I won’t come after any of you again!”

They sounded sincere. Dimitri wanted to believe them like he would have as a young boy, having faith in the good of humanity rather than letting noxious vengeance consume his heart. Even if this assassin’s wrists healed, they could never wield bow or blade again. They would be effectively harmless.

_ “Patricia didn’t need a weapon to kill everyone you loved.” _

Dimitri’s lip lifted in a snarl. That was true. A determined assassin could use anything to find their target. They could raise an army against him, poison his food, tamper with his equipment and murder Claude in a deliberate accident. Jumping at shadows did no good, but a king who allowed vermin to roost in his home would soon succumb to the plague like the one that claimed his mother and laid the first cracks in Faerghus’ foundation. 

What was worse? Murdering someone who could repent, or letting a danger to his friends and family run free?

He didn’t end up getting to make the choice. 

Emerging from the brush, the curve of a blade slid fluidly across the man’s throat.

“Claude?” Betrayal lurched in Dimitri’s breast.

The prince met his aghast face with eyes as hard as emeralds. “I would never take a life unnecessarily. But if we didn’t finish them here, they would have tried again.”

“How can you be certain?” Dimitri wondered.

“Because Almyran assassins are the walking dead. The only thing they care about is the end of their target.”

Bile burned as it rose in the king’s throat. Memories of his fixation on Edelgard clung to the edges of his vision like karmic specters. “So they are like I was.”

Claude caught his arm with the hand not holding a bloody dagger. “No, Dimitri.” The softness in his eyes juxtaposed with the body at his feet turned the king’s stomach. He pulled away, leaving Claude’s hand caressing the air until it folded into a fist and fell back to his side. “You are a kind man and have always been. All you needed was help to find yourself again.”

“And who’s to say they’re any different? Why try to save me and not them? Because I was more useful to your schemes?” Another step back. “What gives you the right to judge?”

Claude’s eyebrows pinched, pained. “I won’t lie to you. Yes, part of it is that there’s more to gain from rehabilitating an open-minded king than a random assassin. Some of it is simply necessity. If I tried to save anybody who tried to kill me, I’d be dead twenty times over by now, and more people would suffer. Dimitri, we can’t save everyone.”

“I know that!” Dimitri snapped. He paused, taking in the trembling of his hands and the sound of Felix dashing in their direction after his outburst. 

He was being foolish again. Just like with El.

_ “You’ve never had the stomach to do what must be done and Claude knows it. That’s why he had to be the one to kill me, too,”  _ her scolding voice cut at his mind.  _ “Almyra is too ruthless for the likes of you.” _

Felix burst through the grass. His non-dominant shoulder was a haphazard mess of bandages he’d tried to apply with one hand and undoubtedly wouldn’t allow either of them to fix. His eyes flicked to the body, then to the two royals’ awkward distance from each other. “What’s going on?” 

“We’ve dealt with the immediate problem,” Claude explained. He crouched, wiping his blade on the assassin’s body, and ran a hand over their face to close their eyes. “But we need to get back to Pasar.”

“Why?”

Claude brushed past him as well as Dimitri, heading toward the horses. “There were only two rookie assassins to take out three war veterans. Not exactly practical. That means the guy who hired them either seriously underestimated us, or it’s a stalling tactic. My money’s on the latter. And I have a nasty inking I know what we’re being kept away from.”

“Are you going to tell us, or are you assuming we’ll just fall into line because you say so?” Felix planted himself next to his king, arms crossed despite the pain it must have caused him.

“My apologies, Sir Advisor. I just thought it was more important to get moving than explain right this second because my cousin may be taking the throne of Almyra while we speak,” Claude drawled. His head popped above the grass as he swung into his saddle. “But if you’re more interested in sitting around here, debating whether or not we should stop the guy who wants to invade Fodlan from becoming Almyra’s king, I guess we can take our sweet time.”

“We need to go, Felix,” Dimitri muttered. His heart trembled like a pegasus foal’s first flight, but his resolve could not. Personal misgivings were meaningless before the needs of a nation. There would be time to make sense of the feelings choking him when the futures of two countries were not in peril.

Felix stared at him with the same calculating gaze he used when he got roped into a game of chess with Sylvain. “Fine. But I expect him to explain why I got shot on a diplomatic mission once we stop Arman.”

“I would accept nothing less,” Dimitri assured his injured friend. “Though I must also request that you ride with me. If we are hurrying, your wound will make it more difficult to stay seated.”

He expected Felix to argue, but a thin press of lips and a nod granted permission. He even took Dimitri’s hand to help him into the saddle. Leaning against his chauffeur, he wrapped his good arm around his king’s waist, letting himself be whisked away with the disgruntled reluctance of a wounded knight being forced to withdraw from a tournament. Claude had the grace not to comment when he took control of Felix’s horse and spurred them away from the hunting grounds.

It appeared Claude had been telling the truth about avoiding something on their trip because they took a different route home, one that followed the major river flowing towards Almyra's capital and got them there in half the time. Unlike the deserted ride out, they passed several dozen travelers on the way back, most of whom grumbled at their backs as they breezed past. One merchant caravan cursed them loudly enough to be heard in Brigid, and only Claude’s rapidly retreating back kept Dimitri from doing more than offering an apology to the wind.

They were pushing their poor steeds far too hard for the short break they had gotten in the name of urgency. Their horses’ coats glistened with sweat in the heat of the day, the breeze in their faces doing little to stave off the heat. Dimitri hoped the stablemaster would forgive them.

When they arrived at the city, the guards stumbled in their hurry to open the gates for the prince charging down the main road. Pasar was not expecting their return.

"Arman made his challenge for the crown not long after you left, and the king accepted about an hour ago,” the guard informed Claude when they were forced to slow their mad dash for a sticky winch. "Most of the spectators are already inside. If you're lucky, you might still make it before the king starts the match."

The man's eyes wandered to Felix's bandaged shoulder. Claude smiled, nudging his horse forward to break line of sight. "Don’t worry about him. We'll take care of it afterward. Wouldn't want to miss my cousin's big match, now would I?"

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you, especially since his mother is still too ill to attend. No one expected you to be back before nightfall,” the guard said. The gate clanged as it snapped into an open position.

“I’m sure that was the idea,” Claude muttered under his breath as they passed through. Then louder, “This way. These things can take a while to get started, but it’ll look really bad if I’m late.”

It didn’t surprise Dimitri that a challenge for the throne would be met with fanfare, but he couldn’t have anticipated the sheer expanse of it, especially on such short notice. The streets were practically empty until they approached the palace itself. There, Pasar’s citizens swarmed around the gleaming towers. Trying to enter the Pit was like wading through a sea of cheering salmon, packed so tightly through the double-wide entrances that Dimitri could only see the arena because he was mounted. They wouldn’t be able to enter on horseback unless they intended to trample Almyra’s people.

Claude swung a leg over his horse, abandoning both it and Felix’s steed outside of the gate. He yelled at the stream of bodies. “Hey! Excuse me! Coming through!”

He sounded like a street urchin begging for scraps rather than a prince demanding respect. No wonder the crowd oozed around him like tree sap. Felix raised his chin, still mounted behind his king and bellowed, “Your prince and the King of Faerghus have arrived! Move!”

Dimitri winced at the shrill order in his ear, both because of its tactlessness and volume. However, he couldn’t argue with results. The crowd murmured to each other, parting for Dimitri and his injured ambassador with the confused obedience of a dog being yelled at for table manners it had never been taught. Claude wasted no time, dashing ahead of them into the arena.

The Pit was filled. The first two levels teemed with people taking seats and talking animatedly about how the match was going to go. Queen Isabella sat alone up in the royal box, leaning against the railing with a yawn while she waited for her husband to fight. In the center of the ring stood four people, most likely the combatants competing for rights to wear the Almyran crown. King Cyrus and Nader Dimitri had already met, both distracted by speaking with someone who seemed to be a weapons marshal, testing the blades and arrows approved for their battle for signs of tampering. Dimitri could guess who the other two were.

Arman was easy to recognize as Claude’s cousin despite Dimitri seeing him for the first time. His resemblance to Claude was unmistakable, angular features and dark hair nearly identical, but Arman's eyes weren't the refreshing green of the forest and he wore a full, neatly trimmed beard that accentuated his maturity. His smile was as charming as his outfit was pointlessly extravagant. Combined with the height he had over both Claude and King Cyrus, it gave Arman the impression of a wealthy gentleman, well-to-do and whip-smart. 

The man next to him had an entirely different aura. Although he was nearly as built as Dedue and wore Barbarossa armor like Claude's, his grin shone with the simple warmth of Raphael during a feast. Salasi the Suncatcher glowed. His pale goatee and hair that had been pulled into a short ponytail contrasted in an otherworldly way with dark skin mottled with freckles. His striking look must have taken dozens of hours of planning and even more soaking up the sun's rays. The braid over his shoulder was twice as long as any Dimitri had seen in Almyra, tipped with a gold bauble that looked like a sun from afar.

Salasi was currently occupied by cupping his hands and shouting towards two teenagers in the closest balcony who laughed and waved back. They made silly gestures at each other, hooting and hollering and altogether reminding Dimitri of a family coming together to watch a joust. He would have assumed they were Salasi’s siblings given the man’s apparent youth, but there were no parents in the balcony to watch over them.

Arman waved at Claude, offering him a fox's grin after it had swallowed a mouthful of chicken. "Cousin! I thought you wouldn't make it."

"And miss you getting thrown in the dirt by dad? Of course not. I’m just hurt you almost started this party without me." Claude's answering smile made Dimitri's bones itch. It was too close to Sylvain's, laughing off bruises that couldn't have come from training, and just like Sylvain, Dimitri had no choice but to leave it alone. 

The pair laughed and embraced, kissing each other on the cheeks like family.

Their greeting caught Salasi’s attention. He chortled and spread his arms as he turned from his family to welcome the newcomers. "You made it after all. Cutting it close, runt - I should write you up for that. Too busy with the outsiders?"

“Ah, what a pleasure it is to see you again, too, Captain.” The prince placed a hand over his heart for a bow that was as insincere as his laughter. “I was just taking my friends for a hunt, which I don’t believe is a breach of the Barbarossa code, so you can hold off on the paperwork. Wouldn’t want you to cramp your bow hand.” 

Salasi’s attention redirected towards the king and his advisor, amber eyes shimmering in the arena’s dappled light. “So you’re the Fodlans who snuck into our home?” He snorted. “Try not to piss yourselves watching real men fight. That goes for you, too, runt,” he grunted, jerking his chin at Claude.

"There's no need to antagonize them, Salasi,” Arman interjected pleasantly. “They’re guests of the crown prince and proved themselves in the Pit. They deserve our respect."

Felix grit his teeth, already advancing on the man who’d playfully insulted him as if Arman hadn’t said a word. "If a strong opponent is what you seek, then fight me."

Salasi sniffed. “Sorry kid, but I don’t waste my time with outsiders.”

“Kid?” Shivering with rage, Felix raised his chin to glare into the other man’s eyes. Dimitri feared there was about to be another punching incident. Doing so during an official competition for the crown could be interpreted as Fodlan trying to interfere in Almyra’s succession, something that would hurt both them and the man they wanted on the throne.

Claude stepped forward with a hand on his hip before either could get into a physical altercation. “Then how about a fight with me instead? Come on, cap, you know you’ve been dying for a go at me since I got my armor. The festival is only a couple of days away. Let’s put this to rest once and for all.”

“ _ You’re _ stepping up for a duel?” the pale-haired Almyran laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day. Maybe you’ll find a backbone yet.”

More insults hidden beneath jokes. That was enough.

Dimitri flanked Felix, meeting Almyra’s literal golden child with the cold fury of a Faerghus blizzard, one that wiped the countryside clean of anyone fool enough to stand in it. “How odd. You speak highly of your prowess, yet you hesitate to battle the outsider you mock or the prince who is half your stature. Curious that you aren’t willing to prove what you’re capable of. I thought the captain of Almyra’s Barbarossa would be a warrior of unparalleled bravery, but it seems I was mistaken.”

That hit a nerve.

“You want me to show you what I can do?” Salasi lifted his arm, two fingers extended. A wyvern screeched overhead, and Dimitri looked up to see several circling the arena, four of which were outfitted in armor but without any rider. “I’d be happy to show you. Let this be a lesson in humility, outsider king…!”

Salasi’s mounting outrage was cut off by something small and hard flying between him and the Kingdom nobles he was facing. They all whipped around to see where it had come from.

"Hold!" The weapons marshal cried from across the arena. “The challenge must be postponed.”

Next to him, King Cyrus lifted his blade for the contest in the air. Its pommel was missing. A fatal failure that could not have come about by accident, and a deadly disadvantage during a fight. Murmurs of unrest swept the crowd. 

_ "Sabotage." _

_ "Do you think Arman would do that?" _

_ "And risk hurting the king? Never." _

_ "Then who did?" _

_ "Maybe the crown prince wanted to stop the fight." _

_ "You think he'd do that to his father? That's dangerous!" _

"Silence!" Cyrus commanded. Their audience hushed. "I will not hear slander of my son or my nephew. We will conduct a full investigation and I will reschedule all challenges after the festival, if that’s agreeable with you, Arman?”

“Of course. My challenge was made at a late hour, anyway. I’ll gladly wait another few days to ensure a fair fight. I would never wish to risk your health, uncle.” His sash swept the ground as he bowed.

The Almyran king nodded. “As expected of an aspiring ruler. Very well. Until a verdict is reached, what happened today is nothing more than an accident. You are all free to return to your business."

Nader chuckled next to him, speaking so only the others on the arena floor could hear, "One heck of an accident, Cy. You nearly took my eye out with that thing."

"If you can't even dodge a little metal like that, I might as well forfeit my crown now,” Cyrus muttered back. He smirked at his blood brother, nudging him with an elbow as he walked past to set aside the damaged weapon for investigation.

His calm set Dimitri ill at ease. A king should be worried about a sabotage attempt that could shape his country for a generation or more. Either this was a regular occurrence in Almyra, or he knew something about why the weapons had failed that had nothing to do with a traitor in his palace.

A heavy weight against his shoulder startled Dimitri from his thoughts. “Felix?”

The swordsman’s skin was glossy, like an apple picked at the cusp of autumn. A sheen of sweat had plastered long hairs across his forehead, his ponytail dragging messily along the back of his neck. Slumping against his king, Felix squeezed his eyes shut. “I think...I may need a seat…”

“Huh? Is something wrong? Did you not drink enough during our journey?”

“...that arrow must have been poisoned…”

“Felix!” Dimitri’s arms shot out to catch him as his advisor’s knees gave out, saving his head from a long fall towards the ground. 

The arena floor burst into chaos.

“Salasi! Fetch a healer!” Arman’s voice cried over the din. He dashed to their side, kneeling beside Claude. 

The prince was already ripping away the bandages on Felix’s shoulder, muttering reassurances to Dimitri with no hint of his usual levity. Felix grimaced. His eyes fluttered between open and closed, making a weak effort to drag Claude’s hands off of him that the archer ignored.

A wild blue eye lifted to pierce Arman. “You did this to him,” Dimitri growled. “I should have your head for ordering an assault on my advisor.”

“Hey now, let’s not be hasty. Felix wasn’t their target, remember? And I’m pretty sure this isn’t a lethal poison. He’ll be alright.” Claude extended a calming hand towards Dimitri’s shoulder. When Dimitri pinned a ferocious eye on him instead, it dropped to rest on Felix’s arm.

Arman didn’t deny sending the assassins. He bowed, touching his forehead to the earth. “Claude speaks the truth, King of Faerghus. I had never intended to draw you or your advisor into the affairs of Almyra.”

“You intended to use us to hurt Prince Claude’s claim to the throne,” Dimitri accused. “You would have murdered your cousin to win a crown you lack the strength to wield without employing underhanded means. In Faerghus, we call that cowardice.” He raised his chin and stood as healers swarmed Felix, channeling the bluntness of the swordsman whose cantankerousness had won him favor in Almyra so far. “I will not sit idle when your actions have wounded my advisor and attempted to end the life of a man I consider a dear friend and brother in battle.”

A glint of gold flickered in Arman’s eyes as they darted to Claude. “A brother in battle? I see…” He returned his focus to Dimitri. “I cannot fault you for your ire. I know you are unfamiliar with our customs, and I swear to you that I truly meant no harm to you or your advisor. I will see it right. However, I cannot let Almyra fall to another without a fight, especially not one influenced so heavily by outsiders when our country is in a precarious state. Surely you understand.”

Dimitri’s eye narrowed. “Better than you might think. My people only recently finished waging a war to maintain their independence. But holding grudges will beget more bloodshed. The only way for our people and yours to know peace is to aid one another.”

“I can see why you and my cousin get along. You think very similarly.” 

“In some ways. But you will find I am far less forgiving to those who threaten my companions.” Dimitri thrust his hand out. “If you wish to be king, then I will treat you like one. Answer for your part in Felix’s injury. Meet me in the ring two days from now, at the festival, and show me your mettle.”

“My, you are a lion of a man, aren’t you? I may have misjudged you.” Arman smiled, fangs bared. He shook Dimitri’s hand as the healers whisked Felix away to the infirmary. “I accept your challenge. I look forward to learning more about you, King Dimitri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! My schedule got a messed up this past week thanks to work and a few other obligations conspiring to eat up my free time, hence the later-than-usual update. I also apologize for Felix being the whipping boy these past couple chapters. I swear he'll catch a break eventually.


	8. Desires and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude entertains some unexpected visitors. They talk about their plans for the future.

_ Breathe in peace. _

It had been freeing to ride far from the pitiless halls of Pasar. To exchange laughter with friends once again. He hadn’t done anything akin to that since the night he and Dimitri spent under the stars all those months ago, one which had changed the course of the world through a single act of trust.

_ Breathe out pain. _

During their more recent ride Dimitri had changed once again, but not for the better. For the first time, he had flinched from Claude’s touch. Watching the king whose faith had been the rock upon which Claude built his dream for the future falter in that moment had felt like the curved blade was spreading Claude’s ribs instead. What if now that Claude had shown his ruthlessness, Dimitri no longer approved of him?

_ Breathe in calm. _

That was absurd. Emotions ran high during assassination attempts, and Dimitri’s higher than most. Claude was asking the king to move mountains while blindfolded. It would be unreasonable to hold it against him when he needed time to regain his footing. Dimitri still considered Claude a friend and brother in battle, even saying those exact words while they were rushing Felix to the infirmary.

_ Breathe out conflict. _

Unfortunately, he said those words to Arman, who was surely devising a plan to use that relationship against them both. Who knew what assumptions he had made. He might even already suspect that Claude intended to ask Dimitri to become his blood brother.

_ Breathe in tranquility. _

That wasn’t something to worry about right now. Everything was okay. Dimitri and Felix knew what they needed to. Everyone was alive. Felix was on the mend. They had made it back before Arman stole the crown for himself.

_ Breathe out turmoil. _

But it wasn’t them who had stopped the fight. If someone hadn’t sabotaged the weapons, the throne would have slipped through Claude’s fingers like sand from a broken hourglass.

If only he knew who had set the trap. Claude would have thought it was another longterm ploy by Arman because he had accepted the rescheduling of their match so gracefully, but his cousin never made a scene even if his plans were crashing down around his ears. That level head had fooled Claude too many times in the past. 

Assuming he truly was expecting it, the broken weapon could also have been the work of Arman’s mother. She rarely put her brother’s life at risk, but if she believed the marshal would catch the unsafe pommel, she could rest easy that Cyrus would remain unharmed by it. Claude’s lateness would set up a narrative that he chose outsiders over his people, and by delaying the match until after the festival, that story would have time to reach even more people. If Arman was able to beat Claude to the crown after that, Almyra would be relieved to be ruled by a fair king who put them first.

Claude sighed and opened his eyes. So much for clearing his mind. If it was determined to race, he might as well run it ragged so he could sleep tonight.

Untangling his legs from their knot, Claude snuffed the incense wafting faint curls of smoke into the air. It had filled the room with a warm, earthy scent designed to soothe a restless mind, but after years of overuse, the blend had lost its effectiveness on Claude. Now, all it managed to do was to pile on more agitation after every failed meditation attempt. 

An unexpected knock at the door nearly sent the useless remedy careening to the floor. 

Claude was no in the mood to talk to Arman right now or his mother. He couldn’t imagine anyone else would be checking in. Not with preparations underway for tomorrow and Dimitri having tethered himself to Felix’s beside. 

It would be easy to pretend he was away. Maybe asleep. But if that was Arman outside his door, the last thing Claude should do was hand his cousin more opportunities to spin stories about what nefarious plots he was up to while shutting himself away.

Claude sighed, shoving a couple of books under the desk with his foot in a parody of tidying for guests, and opened the door.

The placating smile he’d prepared died on his lips. “Felix?”

In the hall stood a haggard but otherwise healthy-looking Felix. Although his hair was a pale imitation of its usual knotted labyrinth, the swordsman’s pallor had returned to its usual fair shades, and the single bandage remaining over his shoulder was half-hidden by the wide neck of his shirt. 

“May I come in?” Felix asked. His lips blanched as restrained politeness pressed them together.

“That depends - am I going to be housing a fugitive from the healers if I let you in here?” Claude leaned forward to look over Felix’s shoulder and the conspicuous emptiness behind him. “Or is Dimitri going to be tearing my door off its hinges looking for you?”

“He’s sleeping. The fool wouldn’t rest until I’d gotten a clean bill of health.” 

And Felix had forced the issue as soon as he was well enough to tell his king off, no doubt. A relief. Claude had struggled to part Dimitri from Felix’s side after he’d collapsed yesterday, even for basic necessities like food, and that would eventually spell more episodes like the one that landed them in the same bed after the feast.

He used to trust Claude more than that.

But at least Dimitri still listened to someone. Claude stepped out of that someone’s way, spreading his arm wide, “Make yourself at home. Don’t mind the mess.”

Felix glowered at the nest of papers and books on the bed as he stepped through the doorway. Designating that chaos a lost cause, he instead moved a stack of tomes from the chair in the corner that Claude had been using as a third desk. 

“You’re worse than Ingrid,” he remarked.

“My apologies, Sir Advisor,” Claude replied with a mocking smirk. “If I knew I would be entertaining such illustrious company, I would have tidied my room to welcome you in the glorious fashion a man from such a noble house deserves.”

The swordsman huffed and gingerly sat in the vacated space. “No, you wouldn’t. Have you forgotten that I lived next to you at the Academy? You’ve always been a slob.”

“I prefer to call it organized chaos,” Claude countered. He shoved a couple of papers aside, perching on the edge of his bed to face his guest.

“Then you’re delusional.”

The prince laughed. “Oh Felix, I appreciate that you never mince words, even now that you’re a foreign diplomat in a country where I’m the crown prince. Most Fodlan nobles I’ve met would be stumbling over themselves to get in my good graces if they were in your situation.”

“If that’s a threat, save your breath.” Felix leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He didn’t cross his arms, a hint that his wound had yet to fully heal. “I already got shot once while I was here.”

It wasn’t an accusation, at least not as incensed as it had been while they were out on the hunting grounds. It didn’t need to be to unsettle Claude. He’d been bothered since yesterday by how readily Felix jumped in front of that arrow. He could pretend that the assassin’s shot was aimed at Dimitri, that he was only doing his job as his king’s military advisor, but they both knew any projectiles fired that day were meant for Claude.

How lucky that Felix had volunteered to be a captive audience for Claude’s curiosity.

"Now that you mention it, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” The prince leaned forward, crossing one leg over the other and rested his chin on his palm. “Why did you defend me out there?"

A single, amber eye cracked open. "What are you talking about? I’ve done it before."

"That was war. This is you defending a foreign prince from an assassination attempt in a country that's not your own."

Felix’s frown dipped as though he was offended, but Claude wasn't sure what part of that statement he took issue with. "Do I need to justify acting like a decent soldier in this place? I'm here as your guest, and it protected my king as well. That's reason enough."

It was, technically speaking, and Felix was masterful at being technical when it hid the maelstrom of emotions that drove him. Claude wasn't sure why the non-answer irritated him. Even the people who grew up with Felix couldn’t get him to open up after saving their lives, a personality quirk Sylvain had cheerfully complained about during many a chess match, so there was no reason he would be more welcoming to someone like Claude.

And yet, he’d protected Claude as if he was one of his own. 

These people from Faerghus kept turning what he knew on its head. Institutional selflessness, corrupted by the selfish nature of man. What a foreign nation the Kingdom was in every sense of the word.

“In any case, I assume you’re not here for the tea I don’t have prepared,” Claude stated, letting the interrogation go for now. “If you want more of that Pine Needle Tea you got in the infirmary, you’ll have to look elsewhere. My private stock’s running low.”

“The tea... you were the one who sent it?" Felix’s jaw clenched. Trust the man to see a threat in Claude’s awareness of what happened in his palace. 

"Don’t give me too much credit, I just suggested it to someone else who wanted to get you something. You looked like you needed it after your little tumble back there, and we usually keep a lot on hand. It’s one of my favorites, too, you know."

"I see. Thank you."

So this was what Sylvain had meant when he said the Felix beneath all those barbs and blades was a man worth knowing. Claude still thought the lot of them put up with Felix spitting venom because of a nationally-accredited masochistic streak that ran through the Kingdom’s noble bloodlines, but he could admit the swordsman’s presence was almost enjoyable when he wasn’t looking for a fight.

"Don't thank me,” Claude said, chuckling. “My mom’s the one who asked about it."

Felix huffed. “Your mother is a strange woman. I don’t understand why she would waste her time on me outside of combat.”

“I don’t know either.” The swordsman’s expression flattened. “I’m being serious! Maybe she’s bored dealing with festival politics. Maybe it’s because you both have a beef with your old man. Maybe she’s been waiting to replace me with a better fighter, and you’re the strapping son she always wanted.”

If he’d been talking to anyone else, Claude would have gotten a soft denial and well-intentioned reassurance that they were certain his mother loved him. But this was Felix, and all he did was hang his head, his face tight with feelings Claude couldn’t begin to parse on his own.

An interesting reaction, but he didn’t have all day for Felix to sort through his baggage. Eventually, Dimitri would wake or Arman would come knocking and their limited time together would be up.

Claude pushed again, “So what did you want to discuss away from Dimitri’s prying ears? I’m guessing it wasn’t your dad.”

Felix’s eyes hardened. He lifted them to bore into Claude’s. 

"I want to know your intentions with Dimitri."

A surprised squeak stoppered in Claude’s throat, mercilessly strangled before anyone could capitalize on his shock. Of all the people to ask about his relationship with Dimitri, Felix had been at the bottom of the list. Claude shoved out a disarming smile. "My intentions? My, that sounds ominous. Planning to chase off any unsavory suitors? Hack them up into tiny pieces to protect your king’s honor?"

Felix leaned forward, hand clenching around an armrest in place of his non-existent sword hilt. "So you admit to wanting to court him."

"I guess no one mentioned in the Kingdom’s etiquette classes that it’s rude to jump to those kinds of life-changing conclusions." It was also dangerous to do so where anyone with their ear pressed to the door might hear, though Claude could scarcely say that now. “You really think the hopeful future king of Almyra would try to woo the king of Faerghus? Doesn’t that seem risky?”

"I agree that it’s idiotic. But while Dimitri has the self-awareness of a dog with table scraps dangled in front of his nose, you don't do anything by accident. That includes ending up in his bed."

"I was just helping out a friend.” Claude’s smile widened. “You know, you’re surprisingly interested in your king’s private life. Is that jealousy I detect?”

“Stop wasting my time with baseless accusations. I want the truth. Unless you’re too much of a coward to stomach it,” Felix snapped.

A low blow, but no lower than the one Claude had already gone for. Running his fingers along the comforting fuzz of his jaw, Claude weighed the safety of keeping his thoughts regarding Dimitri close to his chest versus the danger of a determined Felix coiled in the corner of his room like a panther ready to pounce.

Maybe a shred of truth would be enough to sate the beast’s appetite.

“There’s nothing you need to worry about between us for now,” Claude answered earnestly.

That had been the wrong shred of truth to share. Lightning crashed in Felix’s eyes, his growl the irritated rumble of thunder shadowing it. 

“That thrice-damned reprobate! I never should have left him alone. One encounter with an assassin, and he can’t keep his bloody fangs sheathed.” Claude’s face slackened with horror, realizing too late that Felix had assumed this entire time that Dimitri was the one who had killed the assassin. A ridiculous notion considering that Claude had been holding the weapon that had taken their life, but for a man whose nights were haunted with the possibility of losing his friend to bloodlust again, Claude could understand the twisted path Felix’s mind had taken to get to that conclusion. “Don’t waste your breath trying to deny it. I may have been poisoned, but I’m not blind. You’ve been distant since the two of you were staring at each other over that corpse. You can’t stand the sight of him anymore, can you?”

Claude’s smile trembled in the accusatory silence that followed Felix’s tirade. His correction seemed too mild yet damning next to that wellspring of emotion. 

“You have it backward. I’m the one who killed the assassin.” Claude swallowed to silence his heart’s distressed thumping. “He’s the one avoiding me.”

Confusion froze Felix’s features. Gradually it melted away, replaced by doubt, relief, and something akin to guilt. He started to laugh. “...you have got to be kidding me. All this moping you’ve been doing is because he got angry at you for killing an assassin?”

Claude kept his mouth shut.

“You’ve spent the past year sticking your nose in every part of his business, and yet you still think Dimitri will hold a grudge against you. All this competition for the crown is muddling your head.”

“It’s complicated.”

Sneering, Felix leaned back in his chair. “It’s not. You say it is because you don’t want to deal with it.”

“You’re one to talk,” Claude shot back. 

He hadn’t meant to discuss anything about the awkward ease with which Felix had taken to Almyran life the past few days, but when Felix latched onto the scent of weakness, the only way to throw him off was to counterattack. Predictably, the swordsman halted mid-strike.

“What?”

“You think I haven’t noticed how happy you are here?” Claude stage-whispered like it was something shameful. To Felix, it probably was. “I bet you’ve been avoiding talking to Dimitri about it. You’re too afraid to say anything that would mean admitting you want something for yourself other than Faerghus.”

Felix turned his glower towards the closed window. “You’re the one who lectured me about needing to fix Faerghus. It’s my home and my responsibility. I don’t have to like it, but I won’t abandon my work while it’s only half-finished.”

Claude couldn’t believe it. Felix had remembered his half-drugged, pain-tinged rant in Fhirdiad all those months ago. Not only that, he put enough stock in the Almyran prince’s demeaning words to change his approach to the future, both for Dimitri and for his country. 

It was as touching as it was terrifying, knowing Felix cared so much about his opinion.

Claude sagged into the bed, letting his voice run soft. “Maybe I did say that it’s your responsibility to change your home. But that doesn’t mean you can never leave. Of all people, I would know.”

Felix’s jaw clenched.

“...I’m not like you,” he whispered.

Claude had heard those words hurled at him hundreds of times. It had always been an insult. A way to mark him as an other, someone who didn’t belong in their games, conversations, or lives. It was never doused in longing like this, envious of something in the schemer they didn’t see in themselves.

Clasping his hand over a knee, Claude tried to think of a joke that would stop the heart trying to hammer through his ribcage. But Felix was still staring out the closed window with muscles so tense Claude was afraid his bandages would pop off, and he decided levity was the wrong move.

“When I take the throne, I’d like to have you as an official ambassador. I think you’d like it here,” he tried.

Felix’s fingers worried at the seam of the chair, as uncomfortable with honesty as the man he sat across from, but his bark had little bite, “I only came here because Dimitri needed a babysitter and I wanted to get away from my father’s nagging. I didn’t know you were the prince when I came. Don’t base your decision on some misguided notion of friendship.”

“Do I seem like the kind of person who makes my choices based on stuff like that?” Felix jerked his head in a reluctant negative. “Then don’t worry about it. You’ve earned the right to come back whenever you want. I’m sure Dimitri will approve.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because that night we slept in the same bed, he was talking about your smile.” If not for Dimitri’s sky blue eye lingering over Claude like a sailor hungering for the sea, he might have thought Felix was the one the king wanted that night. “I got the impression it’s been a long time since he’s seen it. He was getting teary-eyed just knowing you were happy.”

Felix’s grumble couldn’t hide the affection tugging at the corner of his lips. “He’s a sentimental fool.”

“Oh yeah, a total sap, I agree,” Claude answered with a grin three times the size of Felix’s.

“Then you know that softhearted idiot will wait for you forever if you keep this up.” The smile vanished from Felix’s face, and Claude realized too late he’d stepped into a trap. “Either make your move or stop stringing him along.”

The abrupt switch back to Felix’s original topic caught Claude unawares, like a vicious stab riding the edge inside an opponent’s guard that he favored to end long fights. Claude needed to stop underestimating Felix’s wiles. He might be as stubborn as a camel under the crop, but Felix was also one of Faerghus’ best bred and educated nobles, and he’d decided that badger-like tenacity should be spent forcing the thing hanging between his king and the crown prince of Almyra to light.

“...if I told you I had a move planned, would you try to stop me?” Claude ventured. He immediately cringed under the crackle of Felix’s glare. “Right, of course, I’ve got your blessing. I got it. I guess I wasn’t expecting to get wingmanned by you of all people. Sylvain, maybe, if he were here.”

“Sylvain’s already done plenty,” Felix muttered behind his teeth.

Claude’s head cocked. “What was that?”

“Stop dawdling and do something about him,” Felix said louder. “Your time is running out. We’ll only be here a few more days.”

That obviously wasn’t what he said before, but Claude suspected pressing for a repeat would get him nowhere. Still, he couldn’t promise what Felix was asking for. Not as long as the throne was out of his reach and his opponents were circling like sharks who had latched onto the promise of blood. He’d need something else to placate the man glaring expectantly at him.

Claude had an idea of what he could try. It might have been intended as a gift for the tournaments tomorrow, but he doubted that even Felix would complain about opening a present a day early.

Hopping off the bed, Claude kneeled to dig beneath his mattress. He pulled out two thin, rigid parcels, both wrapped in fine blue silks and tied shut with a bejeweled ribbon that could double as a hair tie. One was the full length of the bed, while the other only extended to half of his height. Knowing that both of his guests had both a passion for fine weaponry, Claude had gotten them something they wouldn’t be able to find in Fodlan. These were the finest Almyran weapons Claude’s connections could buy, made in the kingdom’s colors and inlaid with lion motifs which honored both his guests and the first kings of Almyra who had founded the festival.

Extending the shorter of the two bundles, Claude said, “I was intending to give these to you tomorrow, but here. This one is yours. And since you’re my wingman now, you can bring the other one to Dimitri on my behalf. Consider it my first move.”

Grabbing only the shorter one and hefting it to test its mass, Felix pointedly ignored Dimitri’s gift. “What ridiculous romantic drivel. Give it to him yourself.”

Another knock on the door interrupted Claude's rebuttal.

“Who could that be?” he muttered, not liking any of the probable options. Felix didn’t offer any possibilities of his own.

There was nothing to be done about it now. At least he’d managed to get something out of Felix before their discussion was cut short. Putting on his most welcoming smile, Claude threw a casual hand on his waist near his weapon and cracked the door.

More unexpected visitors. 

Claude had never met the two women waiting outside. The shorter of the two was mostly hidden, only a shock of dark hair visible from the angle of the door, while the taller stood in Claude's way with a square jaw and eyes forged in the sun’s eternal fire. Her wavy hair had been cut short as if to match the utilitarian fit of her clothes which looked more suited to a grunt on a battlefield than a palace guest. She bore the subtle smile and heavy forehead creases of a woman too accustomed to frowning.

“Fair winds, Prince Claude," she greeted, the phrase and flatness of the hand over her heart as she bowed marking her as an easterner. The woman gave a second bow towards Felix who was lurking behind him, heaving his present onto his good shoulder. "I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something with you and your friend there.”

“No, we were just finishing. You must be…?”

“General Farah the Victorious," she stated, confirming what Claude had suspected. She stepped back so Claude could see the woman hiding behind her. "And this is Nika. We arrived in Pasar this afternoon. We weren’t planning to stay long, but the king said it would be proper manners to meet his son before the festivities tomorrow.”

Nika, undoubtedly the right hand of the general, bounced on her toes to sneak peeks at the prince's room. In contrast to her stoic commander, the shorter woman was a bundle of energy, unable to stand completely still. When she wasn’t shifting from foot to foot, long, delicate fingers that didn't belong to a fighter walked through her bangs, a gesture she probably developed when she had longer hair that could cover her eyes. Those bangs had been angled away from her face, while the rest of her voluminous hair was held off in a ponytail, a headband, and a pair of low pigtails over her shoulders like Lysithea's.

Nika's eyes flew wide as chestnuts when she caught a glimpse of Claude's guest. “Oh wow, who is  _ that _ ?” she whispered to the general.

Not the response he was expecting when spotting an outsider in the prince's room, but Claude would take interest over disgust or suspicion every time.

“That would be Advisor Felix Fraldarius from Faerghus.” Claude chuckled at the alliteration. He could feel the roll of Felix’s eyes behind him. “He’s accompanying his king for the festival. Don’t worry about those bandages on his shoulder. He got involved in a little mishap during a hunting trip, but he’s fine now.”

The spritely woman pounced on the mention of an injury as Claude hoped she would. “Oh, you hurt your shoulder? You know if it’s still bugging you, I can help with that! I mean, we don’t usually share secret Matysian healing arts with just anyone, but I can make an exception for…”

“Don’t bother. I’m fine," Felix interrupted the woman. He fixed Claude with a glare that promised a sword somewhere unmentionable if he ended up back here for a second talk. “I’m going to head back to Dimitri before he tears this place apart looking for me. You know what you need to do.”

Felix brushed past Claude, leaving Dimitri’s gift in the room without giving the prince a chance to answer. The cheerful Nika followed at his heels, undeterred by his dismissive attitude. “Oh, you’re headed to see a friend? Are you sure you’re feeling well enough to go alone? I was planning to go for a stroll and get to know the palace anyway - maybe I could walk you back?”

“Do whatever you want," Felix sighed.

“Great!" She squeaked, attaching herself to his elbow. When he roughly shrugged her off, she tailed him like a baby bird following its mother with her hands clasped behind her back. "So, my name’s Nika, but I guess you already heard that, huh? I mean, most people back home know who I am, but you know how it is - small town, never seen a real mage before, totally obsessed with a girl’s looks instead of her brain. Well, sure, sometimes they care about my money, too, but that’s just as bad, don’t you think? My parents being rich doesn’t have anything to do with me. I worked really hard to be Farah’s number one, and I can’t wait to fight as her right hand against the king. A real live king! How cool is that? Oh, but you’re a king’s advisor, aren’t you? You probably know all about what it’s like to…”

Fondness curled Farah's lips as Nika’s incessant chirping faded into the depths of the palace. “Sorry about her. Nika's got a head for boys who aren’t from our hometown. I’ll make sure she doesn’t give your friend too much trouble.”

“Don’t worry about him. Having some excitement in his life would be a good change for that sack of sour apples.” 

It would also be good for Claude. Setting aside the entertainment of watching Felix drown under that woman’s word deluge, the advisor had proven himself a capable information-gather. If the general’s right hand wanted to talk Felix’s ear off, he was certain to catch something important eventually. It could give Claude the leverage he needed to woo Farah to his side.

“Ha! You are in luck then,” the general chortled, her smile broadening. “Nika always brings excitement.”

“From what I hear, you’re bringing excitement to Pasar, too,” Claude replied with a wink.

The general’s amusement faded. “You speak of the king’s challenge, yes? Why talk in riddles? It is clearer when you say what you mean.”

Eastern Almyrans and their bluntness. That straightforwardness could get a man killed in a place like Pasar, but Claude found it refreshing. Dimitri had taught him the merits of a strong stance without deception while he was in Fodlan, though Claude doubted he could emulate it in his own politics.

He attempted a stab at it with a genuine apology. “I’m sorry, General. I didn’t mean to get all cryptic on you. Yes, I’m talking about you fighting for the crown. I wanted to discuss that with you.”

A single nod. “Makes sense. It is your dad I will be fighting, after all.”

“And my people you’d be leading if you win," he reminded her. He threw up his hands as a placating shield, but Farah didn't appear bothered by his insinuation. "Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve heard a lot of great things about your plans to reform our war policies and treatment of non-soldiers within Almyra. It’s not so far from what I want, actually.”

“And yet you take objection with my plan," she observed. "Speak your piece.”

“Right to the point, aren’t you? What a nice change of pace.” Certainly Arman would never ask for his opinion without an hour of verbal chess first. “Well, my issue isn’t so much that I think you’re wrong as it is that I think we could be more effective if we pool our resources. Having royalty backing your cause would be good for you, and I could use someone strong and in touch with the people like you as my right hand, helping me with domestic policy. It would also free you from being tied to Pasar. You shouldn’t have to leave your family to see your dreams to fruition.”

“So you want me to help you become king instead of taking over myself,” Farah guessed, drumming her fingers on her elbows while she considered his proposal.

Claude grinned. “Got it in one. Now, assuming you don’t hate the idea, I understand you’ll need some time to think it over. It’s a pretty massive change to your plans, after all. The good news is that Dad won’t be accepting any challenges until after the festival, so there’s no need to decide until after the feast. Sound good?”

Farah’s foot tapped rhythmically against the floor. She seemed determined to take her time to think, unbothered by Claude’s nervous energy. Having a hyperactive terrier of a woman traveling with her must have made her impervious to that kind of pressure. “I have a question first. What is your plan for Almyra?”

That, he was eager to answer.

“I think our wars do more harm than good. I want our borders to be at peace,” Claude replied, mindful of his directness. “If we open trade with Fodlan instead of paying for resources with blood, both our peoples will thrive. I understand that welcoming outsiders is frightening to most Almyrans, but I assure you they are not so different from us. Talk with Felix and King Dimitri at the festival and you’ll see.”

She took him in - the forest in his eyes, the sharpness of his jaw, the places where his build was too thin for an Almyran soldier - and hummed. “I believe I understand. This passion for welcoming outsiders comes from your heritage, yes?”

Fear clogged Claude’s throat. It cocooned his heart, shielding and smothering it, screaming at him to deny her. But if there was one thing that Claude had learned from his time with Dimitri, it was that he could not build the bonds he needed if he risked nothing of himself. 

“Yes, in part. It also comes from my six years in Fodlan. There, I learned how much we have in common with them. Almyra could be much stronger with their help instead of sending our sons and daughters to die against them at Fodlan’s Locket,” he said solemnly.

“Fodlan’s Locket...is that the war fought out here in the west?” Claude nodded. Farah cocked her head, assessing his response against her intentions. Eventually, she bowed. “I see. Then I will watch the outsiders you have brought and think about your words. We will speak again when the celebration is done. For now, I must collect Nika for dinner.”

“Of course! Wouldn’t want you going hungry on your first day," Claude chuckled. He returned her shallow bow with a fist over his heart. "I hope you enjoy your stay in Pasar, General. I look forward to seeing you in action.”

Farah’s eyes glinted like an Istahran hawk locking onto its prey. “Likewise, Prince Claude. I will be watching.”


	9. Festival Contests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The festival begins in Almyra. Dimitri learns more about the Almyran king and Claude's competition through his matches.

Dimitri missed his bed. Even when he’d lived without a home for years, exiled and mad with the need to right the wrongs his life had caused, he had yearned for the warmth of his blankets and softness of his pillow in Fhirdiad during moments of weakness. He never entertained those thoughts for long. Comfort brought reprieve, something a damned man like him didn’t deserve.

But he was no longer just a damned man. He was one seeking atonement, and every night spent alone in Almyra made the voices louder, his sleep shallower, and dragged that dream of repenting for his sins father away. 

It was easy to use the distraction of Felix's poisoning to avoid sleep. If Dimitri closed his eyes, he could see an outline of the nightmares waiting for him. Patricia razing Almyra. Her minions posing as Alliance soldiers, murdering Claude and his family to shatter the relationship between Almyra and Fodlan with her stepson forced to bear witness to a slaughter once again. He saw Felix, too, swaying on his feet with a sword meant for Dimitri shoved through his lungs. He smelled the outpour of blood as the blade ripped free and heard the hollow thud of Felix’s body hitting the ground. In his final moments, Felix remained an echo of the brother he strove so relentlessly to distance himself from.

Still, Dimitri could not avoid rest forever.

No sleep meant more hallucinations. The hellish whispers had already become so solid from his few days of restlessness that Dimitri feared visions of his specters were not far off. He could not let that happen again. So when Felix woke and insisted he rest, for once, Dimitri obeyed.

It wasn't easy to stay asleep. Through sheer exhaustion, his slumber lasted until the morning, but he tossed on turned all night, only rising for a quick meal in the late evening when Felix swung by his room. When the next day arrived with rays of light that clawed at his eyelid, Dimitri woke to a knock at his door. 

Dimitri groaned. He groped at the nightstand for his eyepatch and snatched a shirt from the dresser to throw on. Although Felix had seen him half-dressed hundreds of times over their lives, kingly propriety demanded he made an effort to clothe himself if he was leaving bed. Forgoing a polite call that he was coming, Dimitri threw open the door with a groggy sigh.

That was not Felix.

“Claude!" he exclaimed, taking a step back from the threshold. 

Dimitri was suddenly completely awake, yet convinced he was still dreaming. The rakish prince, looking like the dark side of the sun dressed in his Barbarossa golds and blacks, grinned. “Hope you aren't too disappointed to see me instead of Felix.”

“I...I didn’t know you woke at this hour. Ah…come in.”

Claude’s smile softened as he stepped into Dimitri’s room, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I don’t often, but I’ve got something special for you for the Festival. I wanted to deliver it personally.” He extended a package with a deep bow. Swathed in rich blue fabric that looked like it could have come from Fhirdiad’s tapestries, the ludicrously long gift had been tied shut with an elegant ribbon. “An offering of peace between the crown prince of Almyra and the great nation of Faerghus.”

Dimitri chuckled as he took the present, “That is very kind of you, Prince Claude. How regal you’ve become in our time apart.”

“I had to start sometime if I wanted to be king. Though I don’t make any promises about staying that way once I’ve got the crown and can make the rules,” Claude replied with a wink.

Dimitri’s smile grew wider. “Regardless, this gift is stunning. Thank you for your generosity.”

“You know, the gift is what’s inside the fabric. You’re supposed to open it.”

“Oh, is that how this works? Forgive me, I’m unaccustomed to Almyran traditions.” Woefully unused to joking, Dimitri considered Claude’s laughter a victory.

He pulled at the bejeweled ribbon. Layers of blue fabric slipped around the edges of the prize inside and pooled on the floor. A breathtaking polearm rested in his palm, so intricate in its design Dimitri almost feared to swing it. The style was unlike any he’d seen in Fodlan. The king assumed it was of Almyran make, though he’d yet to see an Almyran wield a spear, with a long, thin tip that would be ideal for sharp thrusts on horseback like Ingrid favored, but bearing ornate lions crawling down its length that were of a different style than the full-maned ones on Faerghus goods. It felt familiar and foreign all at once, like the man who gave it to him. As a showpiece, it would sit proudly in the halls of Fhirdiad for generations to come.

“I stand by my earlier statement. It’s beautiful. Even more than I imagined.” Dimitri’s hands ran reverently over the shaft. He gave it an experimental twirl despite the absurdity of doing so half-dressed in a guest bedroom, pleasantly surprised to find it didn’t have the balance of a ceremonial weapon, but rather one primed for battle.

Claude’s grin was so bright it could have lit the way home in a blizzard. “I’m glad you like it! It wasn’t easy to find a spear-maker in Pasar. I had to exhaust my connections in the northern plains to track down an experienced blacksmith who specialized in polearms. The style of the one you’re holding matches the ones used by our horse archers in open terrain, and those lions are one of the symbols of Almyra used during its founding.”

“Simply remarkable. I am continuously amazed by how much Almyra and Faerghus have in common once you dig beneath the surface. Even something so small as using a lion to represent our countries unites us,” Dimitri mused, tilting the shaft to get a closer look at the silver beasts.

“I thought you might like that. Though there is one more thing.” Claude pointed towards the ribbon that had secured the cerulean fabric concealing the king’s gift, currently held loosely between Dimitri’s fingers. “That was made to double as a decorative hairpiece if you want to wear it to the festival. I’d say you should use the spear, too, but we both know you get heavy-handed when you’re excited. Don’t want you snapping your brand new toy on the first day.”

Despite the jab at his uncontrolled strength, Dimitri's heart surged. Claude had given him a favor. Granted, it was unlikely that Claude knew a wearable gift on the day of a tournament held special meaning in Faerghus, but Dimitri felt like a storybook knight being given his queen’s handkerchief the morning of his first joust.

In the Kingdom, the giver of a battle favor was meant to personally affix the item to their champion to bring them luck. Otherwise, it would offer no protection. Dimitri wasn’t a superstitious man, but as the king of Faerghus currently acting as an ambassador to Almyra, he was required to uphold tradition.

It was a convenient excuse to discreetly indulge himself, anyway.

"Would you mind helping me with the tie?" He held the ribbon out across an open palm. 

Claude's fingers brushed across his to take it. "I can do that. Someone's got to give you a hand while Felix is neglecting his duties as your hairstylist."

Dimitri turned his back to hide a guilty conscience and offer up his mane. He didn't mention that he usually handled his own hair, much to the amusement of his closest advisors.

Claude's hands brushed through golden strands that had been freshly washed after he was ejected from Felix’s bedside, combing the fine layers into a ponytail higher than the one he usually wore. Dimitri bit his lip. Longing surged through him, telling him to lean against the gentle hands. He had missed Claude's touch like he missed the sun when it hid behind the clouds. The warmth of its return washed over him.

"How do you feel about a braid?" Claude continued his playing, making thoughtful noises in his throat as he held different clumps of hair together.

"You may braid my hair if you like. I’d venture your sense of fashion is far superior to my own, especially in Almyra. I trust you."

Claude’s fingers suddenly went slack, dropping a large chunk of pale hairs before sweeping them up again so swiftly he tugged a couple of strands out. "I'm glad you know to leave it to the experts. I think a braid would suit you. Only one way to find out, right?"

Deft fingertips wove a practiced web out of the fine strands, splitting them and making them whole again in a pattern Dimitri couldn’t hope to replicate. They brushed so close to the king’s cheek that he could feel the slight tremble of Claude’s fingers against the soft hairs there. He bumped Dimitri with a knuckle.

"Ha, sorry, your Kingliness. It's been a while since I've done this for someone else."

"You have my thanks for taking the time to do it with me, then," Dimitri said, resisting the urge to nod lest he undid all of Claude’s hard work.

Another shaky chuckle. "Anytime."

A few more fumbling strokes and the braid was complete, finished off with a plain black hair tie Claude had fished from his sash. He wasn’t done, though. His fingertips stroked against Dimitri’s neck as he lifted the top half of hair, including the new braid, and wrapped the whole bundle up with the ribbon.

“There. All finished.” Claude stepped around his finished artwork and jerked his chin towards the mirror. “Why don’t you have a gander, your majesty?”

For a man who didn’t do this often, Claude had done a spectacular job. Dimitri rarely took pride in his appearance, vying for acceptable over dashing unlike his many handsome friends who had well-kempt hair and both eyes still intact, but even he had to admit he looked nice like this. Dimitri’s fingers grazed over the foreign texture of a braid in his hair, a fashion statement completely unheard of in Faerghus, and smiled.

“It’s perfect. Thank you, Claude,” he murmured, enjoying the calming slide of the ribbon beneath his fingerpads.

The prince appeared at the edge of the mirror, eyes roaming over Dimitri’s styled hair and simple morning attire. “I’m just glad you like it. I was starting to worry you never wanted to talk to me again.”

Dimitri’s hands fell to the desk. He turned to search Claude’s face but the prince was looking elsewhere. “What? Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been kind of agitated since that assassin. Not that I blame you or anything, but…”

_ “Couldn’t keep your tusks to yourself, could you boar?” _ Glenn hissed over the end of Claude’s statement.

Dimitri set his jaw. It was true that he’d reacted poorly. Claude hadn’t deserved to be snapped at while Dimitri struggled to quash the righteous fury that demanded he start an international incident when his friends’ lives were threatened, but hurting someone accidentally didn’t have to spell the end of their relationship. Mercedes reminded him of that every time she came to visit. If even Felix had begun to warm to him after everything he’d done, surely the man who had stood by him during his worst days could find it in his heart to forgive.

"I owe you an apology,” the king murmured. He felt Claude’s shrewd attention on him, picking through his words like a child hunting for the meat in their soup. “I was startled when you killed that assassin. I had been so caught up in my conflicting thoughts about whether or not they could be reformed that I failed to make the decision that needed to be made. When you made it for me, I was...shocked.” Dimitri dropped his head humbly. “That was wrong of me, Claude. Know that I trust your judgment, and consider you a reliable guide and dear friend. I hope you might forgive me eventually."

For a moment, Claude stared at him strangely. Then he laughed, as light as a winter songbird’s optimism, and dispelled the somber mood. "If I got all bent out of shape every time I pissed someone off by accident, I’d be more ornery and miserable than Felix. I'm just glad you understand why I did it." The light in his expression faded. "But if I’m being honest, I was surprised you hesitated back there. I know you want to give everyone their fair shake, but I’ve never seen you hold back when someone threatens the people you care about. Is something wrong?"

Too many things to mention, but nothing he could say which wouldn’t ruin his stay. They could talk of Patricia and his health in letters after he had returned to Fhirdiad. His homesickness would fade as soon as he was back in the palace, anyway, and he wanted to enjoy his last few days with Claude here.

"Nothing more than the usual,” he decided to say. “Truth be told, I'm more concerned about not insulting anyone during the tournaments today."

"You'll do fine. Besides, Arman could use a little insulting. It builds character,” Claude said with a mocking wink. Dimitri got the impression Arman had said the same words to his cousin more than once when they were younger. His already low opinion of the man was trying to dig itself a deeper grave.

"I'll be certain he remembers the mistake of attacking you and wounding Felix,” Dimitri growled. “You have my word.”

"Hey, I appreciate it and all, but don't let yourself get too worked up. The more we treat him like an enemy, the more people are gonna side with the guy not welcoming the outsider.” Claude clapped the king on his shoulder. “In any case, I’ve kept you long enough. You should get dressed, so we can head over. I already passed Felix on the way here. You won’t want to miss the sun lighting, especially since I’m guessing my dad will expect you in the front row.”

Despite all his reading before he left home, Dimitri was beginning to feel underprepared. Claude had been right that Fodlan’s libraries desperately needed an update about other countries. “Considering the sun has already risen outside, I assume this ‘sun lighting’ is another Almyran tradition?”

“One as old as Almyra herself. The sun lighting is how we honor our kings, past and present,” Claude explained, strolling towards the door. “Well, that and beating each other up, then feasting ‘til we burst. Typical Almyran fare.”

“Then I would be loathe to miss it. Just a moment and I’ll be out,” Dimitri said. Claude stepped outside to wait for him in the hall.

It wasn’t easy to get dressed without undoing all of Claude’s hard work on his hair, but Dimitri managed. The sashes favored in Almyra helped since they allowed him to wear oversized shirts with deeper necklines than he’d never dream of wearing in Faerghus. Breathable clothing was essential if he was going to spend all day sparring. He’d been looking forward to this: the song of friendly conflict in his heart, his powerful limbs doing what he’d been trained for since childhood without the loss of lives. Dimitri was a politician by necessity and a humanitarian by choice, but he was born with battle in his blood.

When Dimitri emerged from his room, Claude escorted him with a youthful spring in his step Dimitri hadn’t seen since the Academy. The prince explained this holiday had been his favorite since he was a child. The people, the merriment, and the spectacle were the best in the world, though he could do without the whole emphasis on kings. Claude didn’t elaborate as to why, but Dimitri could guess.

It was disgusting that the Almyran people could treat their crown prince so cruelly while Faerghus sent Dimitri piles of gifts during any royal holiday to curry his favor.

When they arrived at the Pit, Dimitri scarcely recognized it. Stuffed with people milling about overhead, the extended balconies had been draped with hundreds of clashing, colorful fabrics bearing coats of arms Dimitri didn’t recognize from his Almyran history books. Many had been mounted on crossbars with ends intricately cast to resemble animals. Lions, eagles, and wyverns accounted for most of the sculpted supports, though there was the odd rabbit or ram in the collection and even one pole whose caps had been shaped with colored glass to resemble a twisting flame. Merchants were hawking their wares over the din of the crowd, offering flags, food, and flagons of alcohol, even at this early hour.

The visceral image of a Faerghus joust overlayed itself on the scene. For a moment, Almyra was a tournament in a remote part of the Kingdom rather than a dizzyingly unfamiliar country.

“King Dimitri, It’s good to see you here,” King Cyrus’ voice cut into Dimitri’s thoughts. The man had been talking with Nader in the center of the arena, making his way over when he saw Dimitri and his son taking in the sights. 

The king of Faerghus inclined his head politely. “Likewise, King Cyrus. It is an honor to attend this festival with you and your people. The grounds alone are breathtaking.”

“There’s much more for us to share with you, as I hope my son has informed you.” Claude shrugged beside Dimitri. He had his hands on his hips, shifting under his father’s scrutiny. “I must start the festival now, but as the first match always belongs to Almyra’s king, I had hoped you would open the games with me. I’ve acquired steeds for us both, so you can show off the horseback riding skills my wife says Faerghus is famous for.”

It was an ingenious move. Starting a combat festival with two kings showed respect to both nations while choosing horses over wyverns would allow King Cyrus to keep his pride if he lost. Almyra might not have emphasized victory as strongly as Fodlan, but Dimitri suspected their king losing to an outsider on even terms wouldn’t go over well.

Bowing in the Almyran style Dimitri had been perfecting, he said, “I would be honored, King Cyrus. I await your call and our match.”

Cyrus nodded his approval and strode back to the center of the arena, his steps firm despite his middling stature. It was only when he stopped next to a long rope that hung from where the sky should have been overhead that Dimitri thought to look up.

Far above the floor, suspended by dozens of chains, was the sun. Not a real sun, of course, but a curve of metal against the sky, gold plated and draped in dangling gems of such superior quality that they would have looked more at home on a king’s head than left out in the open.

“Almyra’s Diadem,” Claude whispered next to him. “Every king adds a crystal when they’re crowned. It’s pretty special, isn’t it?”

Dimitri didn’t get to answer because Cyrus had started his speech. It was brief, the mark of a good ruler who recognized when tradition was all that stood between his people and their celebration. He finished it by lifting a torch that one of their priests had run up to him during the middle of his speech. It had been lit from the open temple’s flame they’d visited a few days ago if Dimitri had to guess.

"The path our ancestors have tread will light the way to our future. Under the glow of Almyra’s ever-burning sun, let the games begin!”

Dipping the torch against the rope, King Cyrus started a chain of flame crawling towards the sky and metal sun that hung far above the arena floor. When it reached its final height, the flame danced around the outer spikes, solidifying into a ring of fire and metal. Even in the light of dawn, it glowed, transforming the sand and stone pit into a crystalline wonderland as rainbows from the fire’s light that had been distilled through faceted stones poured over the arena. 

Dimitri understood now why Claude had said the festival fights carried on throughout the night. To stand beneath the beauty of Almyra’s Diadem was to live in a dream.

With great effort, Dimitri turned from the spectacle, but Claude stayed fixated, staring at the sculpture like it was his salvation. He wasn't the only one. In the gallery, Arman's face mirrored his hunger. Next to him, a towering woman with short, wavy hair regarded it with a commander's calculating gaze. Even the spritely woman standing beside her seemed to salivate as a spectrum of light danced across her face.

A symbol of the crown dangling like a steak above the nose of starving dogs. It was a cruel trick but effective, stoking the appetites of Almyra's aspiring pack leaders to motivate them for the hunt.

Claude tore himself away before Dimitri could say something to break the spell.

“Go knock my old man around a bit for me, won’t you?” Claude nudged him in the arm. He pointed to a corner of the ring where the others including Arman, Salasi, Felix, and the women standing with them had begun congregating. Arman appeared to be attempting to make conversation with Felix, who was glaring at him, biting out short responses to his questions. “I’ll be watching with the other crown hopefuls and Felix in the gallery.”

“Other crown hopefuls…?” Dimitri’s eye widened. “Then you mean to say that tall woman is…”

“General Farah. And the woman next to her who keeps making eyes at Felix is Nika, her right hand. Which is exactly why I’m heading over to schmooze with them. I talked to her a bit before, but she wanted to see my other allies before she committed to anything.”

Dimitri hummed, rubbing his fingers over his jaw. “I see. Then I will be certain to put on a good show for you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve don’t think I’ve ever seen you be boring with a spear in your hands.” It was impossible to tell if that was an insult, compliment, or ill-timed innuendo because Claude was already walking away and a guard was approaching with an Almyran warhorse and a lance, calling for the king’s attention.

King Cyrus must have requested a polearm on Dimitri’s behalf, though he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t need more advantages than the horse unless Cyrus was after a humiliating defeat in front of his people, and from what Dimitri had gleaned of Claude’s father, he wasn’t so arrogant as to discount a foreign warlord’s skills simply because they were an outsider.

Dimitri wasn’t given time to mull it over. Once he was in the saddle with light armor strapped to his chest and a blunted lance in his hand, Cyrus raised his sword in salute. Dimitri responded with one of his own.

Cyrus’ sword dropped and he charged.

It was child’s play, knocking the king’s sword out of the way and tagging his shoulder with the much-longer lance. It had been a glancing blow thanks to Cyrus’ fluid form, but he rocked perilously in the saddle. Only his years of wyvern riding kept Cyrus from being unhorsed from a single hit.

They clashed again, Cyrus trying to ride up under the pole to strike at Dimitri’s grip. On any other man, the parry might have worked, but Dimitri hardly needed leverage to overpower someone. He pulled down, forcing Cyrus forward in his saddle with a surprised yelp. A sharp thwack to his back just below the slope of his shoulders smashed him against the horse's neck. The Almyran king tried to spur his horse away and catch his breath, but Dimitri wheeled behind him, pleased with the responsiveness of the horse he’d been given.

Leaning at the edge of his range, one hard thrust landed in the square of Cyrus’ back. The king grunted, then slid from the saddle. His horse ran to a safe distance as Dimitri towered over him, lance pointed toward the king scrambling to get his feet under him.

“Shall we continue on foot?” Dimitri’s voice boomed across the arena. He dimly realized that the spectators were silent all around them. “Or do you yield the match?”

Cyrus laughed in starts, still wheezing from the hit to the back. “I yield, I yield. Well done, King Dimitri.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, undeterred by their king’s loss. Their love for courage over victory hadn’t been oversold.

Dimitri dropped from his saddle, reminding himself not to offer a hand in case it was interpreted poorly once again. “You are quite the fearsome warrior, King Cyrus. There aren’t many who can weather multiple strikes from me on horseback.”

“I can see why. Your strength is beyond even Nader’s.”

Warriors began making their way down to the arena in an unspoken shift from ceremonial battle to the free-for-all of celebration. Practice weapons lifted all around them, serious contests starting as often as ones filled with laughter between friends. Children giggled as they chased one another with wooden swords, roaring like tiny wyverns. Dimitri’s chest ached at the sight of such unrestrained joy.

With everyone’s attention away from the two of them, Cyrus sidled up next to the other king. He raised his voice just loud enough to be heard by Dimitri. "I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Were you the one who gave my son that wyvern?"

Dimitri blinked, surprised. He supposed Estera was particularly striking, more so when she flew overhead with dozens of other dark-scaled wyverns, the light of two suns gleaming off her white hide. Dimitri hoped it wasn’t some sort of Almyran faux pas to give wyverns as a gift, but he didn’t dare lie. “Yes. Estera is a rare breed. I thought she was a fitting partner for a warrior as unique as your son. It was the only way I could think to repay him for all he had done on my behalf and the behalf of all of Fodlan. She served him well in the war.”

“And she’s served him well since.” Cyrus nodded, combing a hand through his beard. “You chose a wise gift. A warrior’s gift.”

Dimitri’s tongue was wagging before he could think to stop it. “I could not choose anything less, for your son is the most remarkable warrior I have ever known. Yes, he is unconventional by Faerghus standards, but I am convinced that his unconventional mind only spurs him to greatness I can scarcely fathom. Since arriving in Fodlan, I have witnessed his growth into a genius tactician. He can win both battles and people with ease, and yet he continues to fight for the unity of all with a stout heart. Moreover, his strength in physical endeavors is not to be underestimated, boasting a mastery of the bow and wyvern as if he was born in the sky. With how much I admire him, I can only hope he thinks as fondly of my gift as you do.”

Cyrus stared at him a long moment, his kingly demeanor like a mountain overshadowing a fledgling hill in its shadow. Then he said, "I have a piece of advice for you, King Dimitri. You cannot contain a fire without snuffing it. If you put up walls, it will jump over them, carried by the wind. If you cover the sky, it will travel beneath the earth, spreading unseen from root to root until it bursts free again. It is better to guide the fire than stand in its way."

Dimitri’s brow furrowed. "I'm afraid I don't follow your meaning."

“One day, you will.” Cyrus shook his head, his stony expression impossible to read. “In the meantime, I have a favor to ask of you. Don’t let my son squander the chance I've given him. He is a bright boy, strong and independent, but his fear makes him hesitate. His enemies will not wait for his perfect schemes."

"The chance you've given him?” Dimitri remembered Cyrus’ nonchalance when his weapon was found defective before his fight against Arman and Salasi. He gasped. “Then..."

Cyrus' pointed glare pinned Dimitri's mouth shut. If the king admitted to sabotaging his weapon to buy Claude more time, the investigation would be cut short and the public opinion of Claude would only plummet further. Dimitri wondered if Claude was aware of his father’s plots on his behalf.

"You have my word. I will support him however I am able," Dimitri assured the other king.

Cyrus held out an arm, bent at the elbow and stiff. A warrior’s salute. "Thank you. I am glad my son has met a capable, loyal man like you."

"It's nothing after all he has done for me.” Dimitri clasped Cyrus' forearm. “And I am glad he has such a caring father."

"Come. They are itching to fight. Let us clear the field."

All over the pit, warriors paired up against friends and settled petty squabbles. In the far corner, Felix faced off against Queen Isabella, looking regal despite his banged-up shoulder. His hair had been pulled back into an intricate ponytail, flowing behind him like a swallow gracefully swooping after its meal. He would earn more Almyran admirers today, Dimitri was certain of it.

In fact, he already seemed to have collected one. The small woman who’d been accompanying General Farah cheered from the sidelines so enthusiastically that Dimitri could swear he heard Felix's teeth grinding over the rumble of the crowd. She was ignoring her leader who stood to her right, squared off against the man Dimitri had offended on his first morning in Almyra. Babak, if he recalled correctly. Dimitri made a mental note demand a rematch later to smooth things over between them.

Then there was Claude, hopping into Estera's saddle as Salasi mounted a sand-colored wyvern whose scales nearly matched its rider's luminescent hair. Both men were smiling, but the razor edge of Claude's warned that more backhanded compliments being flung between them. There was history there that Dimitri didn't understand and feared to learn.

"Hoping they get it out of their system, too?" Arman's smooth voice called from Dimitri's blind side, forcing him to turn. "It's unsightly having infighting like that in the Barbarossa."

Dimitri didn't trust the man's glib smile. "I have faith they can settle whatever disagreement has arisen while Claude was in Fodlan."

"Ah, how silly of me. I forgot that you don't know - Salasi and Claude have fought like this since we were children."

It was an obvious piece of bait, but Dimitri refused to fear whatever trap Arman had laid. "Why is that?"

Although he was the one who had started the conversation, Arman’s response dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "It’s a sad story. Salasi's mother broke off her bond and marriage with his father to run away to Fodlan when he was young. Salasi didn’t take it well. With his mother gone and father heartsick, he was overwhelmed by caring for his brothers and sisters, so he said some cruel things about outsiders around Claude. My dear cousin was still a young boy filled with more emotion than sense and picked a fight about it. I can't blame him, truly. He has faced so much unjust hatred for being the son of an outsider queen that he must have been blind with rage. Still, I don't believe Salasi ever forgave him for the poisoning he got at Claude's hand when they were children. From that day on, Salasi and Claude have always squabbled."

The way Arman told the story made it sound like he regretted the situation, maybe even sympathized with his cousin, but if that was the case something didn’t make sense to Dimitri. "Why would you choose Salasi to support you if you know they don’t get along? To spite Claude?"

"Salasi was chosen by my mother, not me.” The chilled of Arman’s voice almost cooled the flame of revulsion burning within Dimitri. Then he was smiling slick as a fox again, and the twinge of sympathy vanished. “Truthfully, it’s because he is the best Almyra has to offer. As you are about to learn, I’m hardly a paragon of physical strength, and King Cyrus and Nader have no interest in making it easy for me to claim the throne instead of Claude. As much as I would prefer to not cause my cousin more grief than I must, there is no point in playing this game unless I intend to win."

“So Salasi is a means to an end, too.” Dimitri frowned. “I cannot abide by that way of thinking.”

“Faerghus is lucky to have such a virtuous king, though I have to wonder how that inflexibility works for you.”

“Morals only held when they are convenient are useless,” Dimitri bit past gritted teeth. He breathed deeply, unclenching his fist. “Enough talk. Let us settle our match. Since you are, as you say ‘not a paragon of strength’, you may choose the manner of our fight.”

“How generous and courageous to give an unknown opponent free reign.” The comment sounded more bewildered than derisive. “Very well, then we will fight on wyvern back. You can choose whatever weapon you would like.”

There was no way for Arman to know that Dimitri had practiced his wyvern riding in preparation for this trip, going so far as to ask a reluctant Cyril for guidance. He’d expected that he’d need some skill with flying if he was going to spar in the wyvern capital of the world. He was glad to put his training to the test against an opponent where he was exceptionally motivated to win.

Dimitri lifted his chin. “Very well. If you have a wyvern I can ride, then I agree to your terms.”

There was no shortage of wyverns on loan during such an important holiday, it turned out, at least not for guests of the royal family. Like the saddles on the horses he’d ridden in Almyra, the wyvern’s tack was unfamiliar but not unmanageable. It took three attempts to seat himself comfortably on his borrowed steed.

Dimitri ignored the quiet snickers from Almyrans looking his way. He had only practiced mounting a wyvern once a session, so naturally, he was less skilled at that than actual aerial combat. If stumbling into the saddle made Arman underestimate Dimitri’s newfound abilities in the air, it would only speed his victory against the man who had wronged his closest friends.

Dimitri touched the ribbon in his hair, remembering the one he was fighting for. Arman saluted with his axe. Finally prepared, they began the fight.

Perhaps ‘fight’ was too generous a term.

Either Arman was throwing the match, or he had no idea how to counter a spear while in the air. Although it was true that Dimitri had developed a unique style of flying in Faerghus, roughly based on Ingrid’s pegasus forms, it shouldn’t have thrown an experienced warrior off for long. One well-placed axe swipe was all it would take to draw the spear’s haft away from the wyvern and throw Dimitri off-balance. Yet Arman struggled to wing out of the way of Dimitri’s vicious jabs.

One thrust into the delicate joint of the wyvern’s wing to make her roll and a firm thwack across the chest was all it took to force Arman’s back to the ground as Dimitri looped around.

“I yield,” Arman called from the dirt. He didn’t sound remotely out of breath.

Dimitri landed next to him, half-tempted to drag the man to his feet and accuse him of not taking this challenge seriously. In retrospect, that was probably what Arman was hoping for.

Waiting patiently for Arman to rise on his own, Dimitri crossed his arms over his chest. “Then I am satisfied. For now.”

“Forgive me my skepticism, but you don’t look very satisfied,” Arman chuckled. He rolled onto his knees as a volunteer led their wyverns away. “Something on your mind?”

Dimitri’s lips pulled into a thin line. “Do you really believe Almyra needs to invade Fodlan for your country to thrive?”

Arman’s mouth stuck half-open, his lips twitching upwards in a false smile. He coughed and his silver tongue sparked back to life. “Personally? Not necessarily. I’m sure there are other solutions. But if a man wants to seize a throne from a prince, he must have a strong platform to stand on to sway the people.”

“Why are you so hell-bent on taking the throne from Claude?” Dimitri demanded.

“It’s for the good of my country,” Arman stated. He pushed to his feet, arms crossed over his chest. “I love my cousin, but he's not fit to rule. He’s too fond of running away.”

Dimitri scowled. “You're wrong about him. Yes, he knows the value of a strategic retreat, but he's a brave man. A coward would not have been able to save Fodlan and end our civil war. Claude was a fine commander and will be a finer king.”

“Then he'll prove it and I will accept my defeat gracefully. All I want is what's best for my country, King Dimitri. And what's best for him, too.”

“What's best for him?” Dimitri muttered. He didn’t trust anything Arman had to say on the matter.

“Surely you know by now that Claude is not looked upon favorably by most. To be king would attract that attention tenfold. He would be happier as an advisor,” Arman’s head cocked with a politician’s charm, “or perhaps he’d prefer to go home to Fodlan with you.”

“His home is here.”

“I wonder,” Arman murmured. Then firmer, “Well, thank you for the match, King Dimitri. It was a pleasure speaking with you. I believe your next challenge is ready.”

Arman waved and vanished into the sea of other warriors around them as Dimitri twisted to see Claude approaching. He smothered the irritation Arman had provoked in him to greet his friend warmly. "Ah, finished already? How was your match against Salasi?"

"The usual. A few dirty tricks and he fell for every last one of them. Strong like ox, dumb like rocks.” Claude flexed his bicep, gasping it with a teasing smirk.

Dimitri’s lips twitched upwards. "I’d hate to think you say the same things about me."

"Not at all, Your Kingliness. You've bested me more than once in battle."

"Not recently. It's been six months since our last contest.” The king swung his spear in lazy circles, pointing it at Claude in a declaration of challenge. “Perhaps we could try again?"

"I thought you'd never ask,” the prince replied, popping his bow off a shoulder.

Claude didn’t give Dimitri a chance to close the gap between them before loosing his first arrow. Only instinct drove Dimitri from its path in time.

“Just like old times, eh?” Claude laughed as he nocked another arrow, circling for a better angle.

A memory of another battle loomed, unfocused at the precipice of Dimitri’s mind. One from the edge of days that dripped with crimson, where Claude had taken him to an empty arena in the dead of night, a smile on lips overflowing with poisoned promises. Dimitri had won that match, in a sense. He’s lost it in another, more visceral sense, both his grip on his emotions and nearly Claude’s life. 

This would not end the same way.

Dimitri was ready for Claude’s second arrow, dodging it as narrowly as he dared so he could press the attack. “I am not that man anymore, thanks to you.”

“That was mostly your doing, Your Kingliness. I just gave you a nudge in the right direction.”

Claude tried to muscle past Dimitri’s stab, quick steps driving him towards the king’s core, but Dimitri had always been deceptively fast for his build and trained relentlessly with Felix to counter swift fighters. He also didn’t mind fighting a bit dirty against an opponent like Claude. 

Forcing Claude up and over the shaft with his backswing, he gave a firm shove which sent Claude hurtling back into spearing distance. He drove his speartip downwards, trying to pin Claude against the ground, but the old deer hadn’t lost the spring in his step yet. He rolled free, pinning the spearhead to the ground with a hand, which allowed him to flip up to standing and stomp a boot on top of it.

“Looks like I’ve won this round,” Claude boasted, starting to draw his bow. Dimitri’s eyes narrowed.

He lifted.

Like the last time they did this dance, the spear gave out. Unlike last time, Claude was ready for it. He used the momentum of Dimitri’s heave to complete a perfect backflip, then charged forward. Off-balance and holding a broken weapon, the king collapsed under Claude’s full weight smashing into him.

Claude froze above Dimitri, an arrow poised to pierce the king’s neck. His eyes blazed like the midday sun tearing through the canopy of an overgrown forest, forcing light to illuminate the darkest shadows beneath verdant leaves. The sight of him towering overhead, a radiant force of nature like one of Duscur’s pagan gods, stole Dimitri’s breath more surely than the boot on his chest. 

He could not part his lips to yield. If he found his voice now, it would only be to blaspheme.

Claude’s bow creaked as he drew it another knuckle-length. “The match is mine.” 

His words, reverberating with the authority of a seasoned monarch, shook both halves of Dimitri to waking. The man, in awe of his friend who filled his sweetest dreams and stood firm against an unforgiving world. The beast, roaring to destroy this hunter who dared to declare victory while his heart still beat. 

The force of Blaiddyd’s crest smoldered in his blood. One move and he could snap that twig aimed at him. One more, and he could drive his attacker to the dirt, squeezing the breath from his lungs until he begged for mercy. Dimitri’s lips curled into a snarl. 

A huge, rough tongue swiped across his mouth.

It seemed Dimitri laying still on the floor had been taken an invitation to play. Unaware or uncaring of the tension between her rider and the man who’d given her to him, Estera had bounded over from where she’d been watching their skirmish and jammed her big head between them. 

The king’s battle lust ebbed like the morning tide. She reminded him of the dogs who liked to lick his face after a long training session back home. He could never stay cross around them. Their naive cheer was infectious, even for a man who pinned demons to his breast like a badge of valor. Dimitri wrestled the big head out of the way, so he could see Claude laughing at him.

“What an underhanded trick, Claude, sicking your wyvern on me,” the king grumbled playfully. His hand which wasn’t busy directing said wyvern off of him held up an empty palm in a sign of surrender.

Claude tossed his bow back over his shoulder, the fire in his eyes softened to a warm glow. “Hey, you know me. Always got to use every advantage I’ve got, right?”

“Truthfully, this time you had me beat squarely even without her interference. You are skilled enough not to need tricks.” Dimitri smiled as he dragged himself to standing. “I hope for their sakes, Arman and General Farah were watching. They don’t know who they’re up against.”

“Good to know you think I can beat them.”

It was delivered as a joke, but Dimitri thought of the ribbon in his hair and his promise to the king of Almyra and answered solemnly, “I will make sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just a few housekeeping items.
> 
> If you recently started reading, you may have noticed the illustration links are broken in the earlier chapters. They've recently been moved to Instagram for public use instead of Twitter, and I'll be updating as soon as I can, including the beautiful new chapter illustration for Chapter 6!
> 
> Also, for those who have played the DLC or seen the supports, you know that more information was released about both Claude's mother and Dimitri's stepmother. For the time being, I don't anticipate updating any lore or names in this fic. You can consider it another small piece of canon divergence, so I can keep writing this story instead of spending my time reworking parts of it.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	10. The Meaning of Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The festival winds down with a final few matches. Claude gets an answer from General Farah about working together.

This was the Almyra Claude loved. Drums rumbling in the distance, the heart of the earth and the heart in his breast pulsing to the same beat. The smell of men’s appetites being appeased as a heady combination of sweat, alcohol, and smoke overlaid the inviting fragrance of succulent meats simmering with the finest spices Pasar had to offer. Shouts of joy and challenge had swelled with the setting sun, while the cries of wyverns waned as they took their evening meal in the nearby stables. This city that bore the worst of humanity’s faults had transformed into a dreamscape of possibility and jubilation beneath the light of a manmade sun. 

All of Pasar rejoiced in the illusion cast by Almyra’s earthbound stars. For a time, Claude let himself be lost in the spell as well, exchanging stories and fisticuffs with people who almost made this place feel like home. If he hadn’t needed General Farah’s answer by the end of the night, he might have been content to remain bewitched until morning.

He was cautiously optimistic about her answer to his proposal that they join forces. Today had gone well. Dimitri performed admirably in the ring without committing any major offenses, Felix’s injuries hadn’t held him back, and Claude himself remained undefeated at the festival, something he planned to tease Nader about when all this was over. Victory in battle wasn’t a measure of success in Almyra, but when trying to win favor from someone with a title like “the Victorious”, a track record of successes couldn’t hurt.

Even more fortuitous for Claude’s schemes was Nika’s apparent infatuation with Felix. Having a direct line to Farah’s ear was priceless, and she’d scarcely left the swordsman’s side all day. Her ebullient personality clashed with Felix’s stony facade, slowly eroding his sharp edges, but Claude suspected he was learning more about Farah and Almyra from her constant yammering than she could wheedle out of him about Claude or Fodlan.

Speaking of the shadow, Nika was currently engrossed in watching Felix fight like she had been doing all day. This time it was a wrestling match between him and the general, both abandoning their weapons and stripping to their undershirts after a long day of sparring. Nika was cheering loud enough to be heard clear across the arena with a bemused Dimitri standing next to her. 

“Come on! What are you doing?! Grab lower - lower! Pin her to the ground!” she shouted, thrusting her fist in the air. She seemed blissfully unaware of how obscene her coaching sounded without context.

Felix had gotten a weak grip at Farah’s waist, but Farah was relentless, pressuring his wounded side. Felix grit his teeth through the pain. One of his legs bent at the knee as if failing to hold while counterbalancing his almost-healed injury which had surely been re-injured from all his bouts today. 

It was a ruse. 

Felix might have had problems with emotional control, but he didn’t show weakness while fighting, not unless he was half-dead or baiting his opponent. He’d deceived Claude like this when they’d crossed blades in the past. Claude had learned the hard way that someone as pigheaded as Felix could still be clever in battle. Against most opponents who already underestimated him for being an outsider, his display of frailty would have sealed his upper hand.

But General Farah had not earned her “Victorious” title by underestimating her opponents. Ignoring the bent leg inviting her to keep pressuring from above, she dove downwards, hooking her arm around his other side. She lifted. 

With a yelp, Felix rolled off her back and onto the arena floor, kicking up a cloud of dust.

“A good attempt, Felix,” Dimitri consoled from the sidelines. Felix grumbled something sour as he tested his shoulder, having been unable to completely rescue it from the brunt of his fall.

Farah spun on her toes to glare at Nika as soon as the fighting was done. "What was that? You’re cheering for my opponent, now?"

"Oh, come on Farebear, don't be like that,” Nika chided. She bounced up to her leader’s side, giving the general a tap on the arm. “You know I'm just having fun. It gets boring when you always win. I was hoping someone could finally beat you, so you could have a real rival!"

The general’s severe mask shattered, rolling her eyes and giving Nika a slap on the back that sent the other woman tumbling forward. She staggered but caught herself before smashing into the now-standing Felix.

“Well fought,” the general said, extending her hand past Nika and towards the man she’d nearly careened into.

Felix snorted as he took her hand. He refused to look her in the eye. “Don’t patronize me with false modesty. You dominated that match from beginning to end. I need more practice.”

Dimitri was already opening his mouth, probably to apologize on behalf of his advisor. Farah cut him off with an appraising hum. “You’re tough on yourself. The mark of a good soldier. Your king must be proud.”

“Complacency gets people killed,” Felix answered simply.

“A strange sentiment to hear from one so young.”

This time, Dimitri did interject. “Not as strange as you might think. It is customary in Faerghus to start training for battle at a very young age regardless of status, often before learning to read or write. For nobility, it is even more important. Felix here has been studying the art of combat for two decades and already served as a soldier for one. It is the same for me.”

“Child soldiers are not unheard of in Almyra either, but they are not the norm,” Farah stated, crossing her arms. “You must fight many wars in Faerghus.”

“Not as such. At least, not in the sense you’re thinking,” Dimitri replied. Claude prayed Farah could not read the tension in his placating gestures. The looming threat of insurgents following their deceased leader’s example, sparking more years of rebellions and civil unrest in the Kingdom, sat as heavy as a great wolf pelt on his shoulders. “Our land is not as bountiful as Almyra. It is covered in poor soil that is frozen much of the year, so to keep our people from starving we must fight to protect what little we have from beasts, thieves, and invaders. The only true war we have fought recently was the one Claude guided us through. He’s a remarkable leader.”

A few years ago, Claude would never have anticipated someone bragging about his influence without any prompting. That was before Dimitri. What a dependable man the king was, untouched by greed and far more adept at politics than Claude gave him credit for when they were teenagers. 

A sturdy backbone like Dimitri’s was sometimes as necessary as Claude’s flexible one. While they were dealing with the bluntness of an eastern general, leaning on Dimitri’s earnestness to compensate for his own shifty nature seemed wise. It didn’t hurt that he was full of compliments, either.

Claude sauntered up to the center of the conversation with a grin. “Keep talking like that and you’ll give me a big head.” He paused, then amended, “Well, bigger head.”

“I wasn’t aware that was possible,” Dimitri deadpanned, borrowing a taste of Dedue’s desert-dry humor. His eye sparkled with mirth as bright as the Diadem’s sapphires.

Farah laughed, flashing the whites of her teeth. “Would you like to put your ego to the test, Prince Claude? I may be tired from wrestling the Faerghus advisor, but I would face you.”

This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for all day. Claude bowed, letting a cocky smirk flow across his face. “I thought you’d never ask, my lady.”

He wasn’t sure if she took offense to the glib comment or simply prided herself on aggressive fights, but Farah was already sinking into a crouch before he rose from his bow. Claude chuckled, mimicking her movements. He settled into a wider stance favored by shorter wrestlers.

Breathe. Let the fear be swept away under a current of anticipation. Winning this bout didn’t matter, but putting up a good fight did.

They slammed together. Claude had to get the upper hand quickly if he didn’t want to be ground into the dirt. Farah was no fledgling brawler easily distracted by flashy tricks. She was a hardened general who’d fought hundreds of matches like this one to get where she was now. Claude hooked one arm over her shoulder, rocking his weight to throw her off balance.

“Come on, Farah! Get ‘im!” Nika called from the sidelines. “Smash him down!”

The general’s panting face next to Claude’s grimaced. “ _ Now _ she cheers for me.”

Struggling to maintain his grip, Claude could only grunt in response. She was strong. Strong enough to stay upright even with the full brunt of his weight bearing down around her neck. Farah pushed up, forcing Claude to his tiptoes.

If he didn’t let go, he was about to lose.

Claude’s hands released their grip around the General, but she was ready for it, stepping in to grapple his leg. Claude twisted away from her advance. It wasn’t enough. Lunging further using her long stride, Farah landed her foot around his to drive him to the ground.

The prince twisted his heel sharply against hers. Their balance gave out in unison.

“Claude!”

Dimitri was at his side the moment they hit the ground, a tangle of limbs and coughs after their short freefall to the arena floor. Claude smiled up at the king while he caught his breath. 

“Easy there, your Kingliness. I’m fine,” he said toward that panicked blue eye. Maybe a little humor would calm him down. “What’s the look for? Jealous? Did you want a  _ wrestling match _ of your own?”

That got Dimitri to back off. He took two jerky steps backward, giving Farah and Claude enough room to roll to their knees and stand up while his face flickered between mildly embarrassed and irritated. “That is a highly inappropriate thing to say in front of the general, Claude. Please, mind your audience.”

“I’ve heard worse on the front,” Farah stated, shaking out her leg. “Though it is good to know you are bhiradar. I was wondering.”

Claude’s smile froze. There was no way she’d worked out that he was planning to ask Dimitri to be his blood brother after the coronation. Had he said something to give himself away? Had Dimitri?

He needed to keep a clear head until he knew more.

"Whoa, that’s quite an accusation there. What would make you think we’re bonded?" Claude asked casually. He lifted his braid, displaying the gold-tipped end, absent any red string. “I figured you already noticed, but I don’t have a red cord, and he doesn’t either.”

"That braid is not for show? Interesting. No one wears them openly in Matys." Reaching into the depths of her wavy bob, Farah pulled out a small braid of her own that had been hidden by the layers. It was messy, flyaways slipping out everywhere, but the end had been neatly tied with a red cord. "Nika and I have been bhiradar since we were about twelve. With how you two act, I thought might've joined your bond when you visited your mother’s home." She released the braid and it disappeared into the ocean of brown waves again.

Dimitri cleared his throat. "Forgive me my ignorance, but what is a bhiradar?”

“We call them blood brothers here. Like Nader and my dad,” Claude explained. 

He hoped that would be enough for Dimitri. The significance of bonding with someone in Almyra was a heavy topic better kept for the day when Claude presented his strings. He already had the whole speech planned out, and it definitely didn’t include an Almyran general, her blood sister, and Felix listening in on it.

Unfortunately, Farah had other ideas. “A bhiradar is the person you trust above all others. The one who you would be proud to fight beside until your dying day. They are the other half of a warrior’s soul, both their confidant and their defender. Sharing your red tie is making a pledge of mutual and absolute loyalty to someone, meant to last a lifetime.”

Claude’s fingers fidgeted near his dagger. She wasn’t wrong, technically speaking, but he hadn’t wanted to make the whole ceremony sound so heavy. Dimitri took things seriously enough without appealing to his sense of obligation.

The king was frowning, hopefully not at the thought of sharing that kind of relationship with Claude. "I think I understand. It sounds a great deal like marriage in Fodlan, though most marriages in Faerghus are not made between two warriors.” Dimitri’s fingers danced over his jaw, brow creased with deep thought. “But I’m afraid there is something I don’t understand. King Cyrus has a blood brother, but he also has a wife, correct? Wouldn’t both of them having a strong bond with the same man bring them into conflict?"

Farah scoffed, "Of course not. A spouse makes a home and raises children with you. A bhiradar is your closest friend and companion in battle. Many share intimacy with their bhiradar, and a lucky few are compatible enough to marry, but not many.” She slowed, her next words uneasy, “Surely in Fodlan, you don’t always expect that a good homemaker can also be trusted with your life and most private thoughts? How does anyone ever get married?"

"It is simply the way of things. Although, I would be speaking falsely if I said all marriages are built on a foundation of trust. Many exist solely to carry on bloodlines, especially among the nobility.” A shadow of bitterness fluttered across Dimitri’s face. “That’s not to say we are strangers to close friendships or brothers in battle you would trust with your life. However, those relationships are never official. Marriage is the only union between two people that Fodlan celebrates."

"How unusual. I could not imagine raising a family with Nika, but we have been bhiradar for many years already. I would not wish to be without her,” Farah said, holding her hand out towards the bubbly woman.

Nika grinned and gave her hand a brief squeeze. “Yeah! Farah and I knew it was fate to be together ever since our first fight together as kids. She was totally unstoppable even then! She beat the snot out of some dumb soldiers who blamed me for damaging their stuff with my magic even though I wasn’t practicing anywhere near them. She’s always been there for me, and me for her. I can’t imagine my life without her, but I also can’t imagine marrying her.” She giggled, toying with the bangs falling near her eyes. “I just don’t think I could put up with her messy room for the rest of my life if we lived under the same roof, you know?”

Felix’s focus had gotten stuck on the first part of her rant. "You pledged your life to each other as children?" Felix's gaze drifted towards Dimitri, then skirted aside with resentful ferocity. "What a foolish idea."

Nika’s temper flared to life like a flash of lighting setting a prairie ablaze. Her eyes glowed with disgust as she stomped her foot, magical energies gathering around her. "Hey! Don't act like you know better than us about our relationship! You didn't even know what a bhiradar was five minutes ago, and now you think you can tell us how to live our lives? I'll have you know Farah and I have been bosom buddies for almost twenty years, and I'll thank  _ you _ not to make snide comments about it."

"My apologies, Nika. The subject of lifelong loyalty is..." Dimitri swallowed, measuring how much to say with Felix coiled and ready to strike. "It's very different where we're from. I'm sure Felix didn't mean any offense."

Farah put a hand on Nika’s shoulder. “It’s alright.”

The spirited woman’s rage fizzled as though someone had dumped water on her blaze. He hung her head, scuffing the dirt with her toe more like a chastised child than a mage who had been three seconds from frying the lot of them. If Claude hadn’t gotten his fill of teasing grown women about acting like kids with Lysithea, he’d have been tempted to try it with Nika, too. 

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so heated,” she mumbled. “A lot of people like to tell us we didn’t know what we were doing, especially now that we’re trying to make a difference. I know you said you don’t have bhiradar in Fodlan, but guess it felt like you were another couple of childhood friends who broke their bond and wanted to drag everyone else down with you. But you were never bonded, right?"

Dimitri blanched as Felix tensed beside him. "Ah... no. Not...not exactly."

Claude cackled over the spluttering nobles, happy to have the attention off of himself and his complicated relationship with the king of Faerghus in favor of the even more complicated relationship between the king and his advisor. In another lifetime, they could have passed for blood brothers, no one would deny it. Dimitri and Dedue, too. Maybe even Sylvain could be thrown in the mix. It was a good thing Faerghus didn’t have blood brothers, or before long every noble house would have been tied to each other in a messy mix of conflicting loyalties.

Also, it would have meant Claude didn’t have Dimitri to himself.

"You've got a gift Nika. I don't think I've ever managed to shut the two of them up so fast." Felix rounded on him, ready to channel his discomfort into anger, and Claude threw up his hands. "Kidding. Kidding! Come on, why don't you guys go for some grub? Nothing soothes the old nerves like eating until you pass out."

"Disgusting," Felix grumbled, but his revulsion was subverted by the discreet sniff he gave the air. The strong scent of mouthwatering meats wafted over the arena from the markets and makeshift dining tables outside.

Dimitri breathed in with a pleased sigh. "Perhaps we needn’t eat to excess, but Claude does have a point. It is getting late and this food does smell delicious. Won't you all join us for dinner? It would be an honor to spend it with such wholesome company."

“Wholesome company?” Farah chuckled."You're a strange one, King Dimitri. I’ve never met someone who says things like that and actually means them. But sure, let's eat together."

"You know I'd never turn down a feast, but is it alright if I talk to General Farah real quick first? Just need to sort a couple of things out with her before we head over. I promise I'll catch up right away,” Claude added with a wink.

Dimitri nodded seriously, a half-smile twisting his lips. "As long as you keep your promise. I've chased you away from too many feasts. I'd like to enjoy one with you for a change."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Claude reassured him.

They parted with cheerful waves and bumps of the arm all around, except for Felix who stalked off on his own in search of something tasty to fill his mouth so he wasn’t forced to make small talk with Dimitri or the woman bounding along at their side. Claude wondered how different his life would have been if he had friends like this growing up. Maybe he never would have left. Then again, maybe he never would have appreciated them if he didn’t understand how swift and merciless the sting of rejection could be.

The general’s voice sliced through his reminiscing. “You needed something?”

"Well,  _ need  _ might be too strong of a strong word…” Farah’s lips dipped into a frown and Claude’s smile faltered at the misstep. He’d gotten too relaxed and forgotten she hated flowery, deceptive language. “I’ll keep this brief. I wanted your answer to my proposal that we work together now that you’ve seen me fight and spoken with my friends from Fodlan."

"My answer is no."

The air turned to ash in Claude’s lungs. Sooty grit from lifelong fears crawled up from deep in his gut, choking his breaths and burning his throat as his dreams shattered and went up in flames like a crystal chandelier crashing to the palace floor. His hands shook.

Her simple denial was more deadly than any hidden dagger had ever been. No crest could save him from this.

"Can't say I'm not disappointed with that answer,” he forced out through the panic. “Did Felix or Dimitri do something to offend you? I'm sure we can straighten out any misunderstandings."

"My problem isn't with them. It's with you.” She looked him dead in the eye as she said the four words he hated most, “You are a coward."

Claude’s smile struggled not to become a bearing of fangs. "That's a bold accusation considering I just fought everyone who approached me today. What makes you think I’m cowardly?"

"Fodlan is a blade Arman wields against you because you give it to him. A true leader does not need to hide his heart. It beats with the hearts of his people."

"If you think I don't have Almyra's best interest in mind..."

Farah didn’t let him finish. "What I think is not the problem.  _ You _ are the one ashamed of your heritage.  _ You  _ are the one who hides from a man who should be bound to you. You stare at him like a seabird stares at the shore, but you will not even admit what lies between you because he is an outsider."

"The political situation is..."

"An excuse.” She cut through his justifications with the same ruthless efficiency she wielded her axe, leaving Claude scrambling to find his footing. “There is never an easy time for change. If you wish to be king, you must prove you can lead by example. I will not follow a man who cannot be proud of where his heart lies because I cannot trust he has the bravery it takes to make lasting changes, no matter how good his intentions."

Claude pressed his lips together, unable to force a smile. “And if I prove to you I can be proud of my heart?”

Farah shrugged. “Then I see no reason not to fight at your right hand. Your goals align with mine, as you promised.”

“I see.” Claude swallowed, trying to process what this meant for him.

Objectively, it was the best bad situation he could be in. If asking Dimitri to be his blood brother was all that stood between him and Farah standing side-by-side, winning her over would be trivial. He merely had to do something he’d already planned, something he had wanted to do for several months now, a bit early. 

He already had the ties. He had the speech. All that remained was getting Dimitri alone and asking a question Claude expected he knew the answer to.

So why were his knees trembling like he was preparing for the assault on Enbarr all over again at the thought Dimitri might accept? Why did he quake knowing that tomorrow, Claude might be wearing the red tie he had labored over for months? What was there to fear in admitting to the world that someone had finally won the trust of Almyra’s elusive crown prince, and it was none other than the earnest, compassionate, strong-willed and occasionally pig-headed king of Faerghus?

Claude’s nails cut into his palms as his fists squeezed to stop the shaking. Farah was right. He had faced down impossible odds and enormous armies without flinching, but when it came to matters of the heart, he could not deny it.

Claude von Riegan was a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I haven't gotten to the comments yet from the last chapter, but I figured you all might enjoy getting this one a week early instead! As you can probably tell, the next chapter is sure to be chock full of emotion. 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading, and I hope you're excited as I am for what comes next after over 100k words of slow burn. ;)


	11. The Red Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Claude finally define the nature of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of specific warnings for this chapter: minor ritual blood-drinking (as in drops in a drink) and more explicit references to a dimitri/sylvain fwb relationship.

“Are you enjoying your...what was it you called it again?” Dimitri asked the little girl picking at a plate of skewers next to him. She ducked her head, tucking a tiny braid behind her ear and nearly smearing rice and spice all over the sleeve of her fancy blue dress in the process. “Coo...Cooky….”

“Koobideh,” she chirped softly into her dinner.

Dimitri nodded, taking a moderate bite of his own tasteless food. It was warm and juicy in the mouth. Probably spicy, too, considering how Felix had devoured his portion like a famished tiger. “Yes, that was it. Koobideh. How is it? Do you think your brothers will like it, too?”

The small head bobbed up and down.

“And you’re sure it’ll be enough? You don’t need any more?”

She swallowed her mouthful of meat before talking, the echo of lessons from parents long gone. “You already got me a whole lot. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“The point of a festival is for people to indulge. That includes you,” Felix chimed in. Her head lifted from her plate to stare at him with wide, auburn eyes, and this time he was the one to glance away. “Just take the food. It’s rude to turn down a gift.”

“Please, it’s no trouble at all for us. I would hate to see anyone go hungry during a joyous celebration like this one,” Dimitri added with what he hoped was a kind smile.

The orphan’s eyes flickered between Dimitri, Felix, the food, and back again. She opened her mouth to speak but her jaw dropped in horror as her gaze locked onto something over Dimitri’s right shoulder. 

He knew that look from his time in the slums of Faerghus. Trouble was near.

Dimitri whipped his head around, and wickedness began to howl inside him. It longed for the terrible satisfaction of tearing apart whatever guard dared to harass an orphan girl trying to provide for her family. Or if it was a bandit who intended to steal her food, he would cut the tongue from his thieving mouth. So enraged by the thought of someone preying on the young girl he’d found, the same horror he’d witnessed many times before while living with the poor and destitute, Dimitri almost forgot two important things.

First, that Felix would never let him commit an act of brazen bloodthirst on foreign soil, even if Claude’s reputation wasn’t enough to stay Dimitri’s hand. The advisor reached for his hilt in warning, not to whoever their guest saw, but to his beast of a king.

Second, that there was one more category that commoners ran from other than bandits and corrupt guards.

Royalty. 

“Hey, guys! Sorry about being late. I got held up for a little bit.” The intruder called out as he approached, waving at the table. Claude’s smile and Dimitri’s anger both washed away like marks in the sand beneath the waves. “Whoa, what’s up with your little friend?”

The king turned back to an empty place setting where the girl had been. He sighed, “She was an orphan we found while getting our food. She and her siblings had scraped up the money to buy dinner, but all the festival food was too expensive, so we offered to cover their meals.”

“And by ‘we’ offered, he means he did.” Felix propped a foot up on the bench, glaring at his king without disapproval.

Dimitri shook his head. “Nonsense, Felix. You helped as well. I didn’t even think to ask for something more portable. Without your guidance, she would have been forced to make a mess of their dinner when carrying it back home.”

Claude chuckled, taking up the seat the young girl had left. He dropped a modest bag on the table next to her plate. It had an adorable red heart surrounded by a sun printed on it along with the phrase ‘Heart and Sol’. Dimitri vaguely remembered seeing the same logo on a banner while they were walking past the many booths lining the plaza.

“She sounds like a swell young lady. It’s a shame I missed her.”

“Why are you so late, anyway? General Farah grabbed food and took Nika away nearly half an hour ago,” Felix grunted. His relief was so palpable at being freed from the squawking songbird that had been shadowing him all day that Dimitri had to hide a smile behind his hand. His advisor scowled at him for it anyway.

“Yeah, sorry about that. It took me a bit longer than I expected to track these down.” Claude shook the small parcel over the table. “Want to try one? They’re an Almyran specialty.”

Tugging on the ribbon holding it shut, Claude unfurled the fabric to reveal a handful of colorful cubes molded out of sugar. Some had what looked like nuts suspended inside. Others were shaped into stars and drowned in powdered sugar. It smelled like nothing Dimitri had eaten before yet still comforting, as though someone had mixed Mercedes’ confections and Dedue’s flowers into a delightful treat. He would have to bring some back for them if Claude would allow it. No doubt the two bakers would be ecstatic at the chance to recreate such an unusual recipe.

Felix, on the other hand, glowered at the offering with a wrinkled nose. “I’ve got better things to be doing than stuffing my face with that sugary rubbish.” Standing abruptly, he shoved himself away from the table. “You can babysit Dimitri while I get another couple of rounds in.”

Dimitri raised his hand to call at his advisor’s retreating back, then gave up with a sigh. All things considered, Felix had been remarkably patient today. If he needed to spend some time alone, Dimitri wouldn’t begrudge him that. Especially not when he was left with the pleasant company he’d wished to spend more time with all day.

Claude shrugged as Felix stalked away, acting like he hadn’t known from the start the swordsman would refuse the sweets. “More for us, I guess. Go on. Do the honors, Your Kingliness.”

Dimitri chose one of the yellow powdered stars without hesitation. He might not be able to taste them, but the sweetness of Claude’s gesture and its light, lemony aroma was more than enough to satisfy his senses. The first bite was smoother than he expected. However, as he chewed it dried his mouth like the time he’d tried his horse’s salt lick as a child. A sharp, shriveled, uncomfortable sensation. 

Perhaps the unusual mouthfeel was what made Almyran desserts so special. He couldn’t say he enjoyed it, but if diplomatic training had taught Dimitri anything, it was how to gracefully tolerate something for the sake of others. It wouldn’t do to hurt Claude’s feelings after he so generously went out of his way to share part of his culture. 

“It’s exceptional. Thank you, Claude,” Dimitri said, allowing his appreciation for the prince’s gift to conjure a smile. He held up the back end of the piece he’d nibbled from. “Here, would you like a bite?”

Claude grinned and licked his lips like he was thinking of something Dimitri would scold Sylvain for. “How gentlemanly you are, Your Majesty. I’d be honored.”

For a moment, Dimitri thought Claude would lean in and take a bite without using his hands, letting the king feed him in a way that was both entirely inappropriate for their setting, and if Dimitri was being honest with himself, twice as attractive for it. Claude plucked the sweet away, shattering his daydream. He handled it with careful fingers, trying to avoid smearing white power on everything and taking a sensuous bite.

Claude immediately spat it back onto the table.

“Ugh, what the hell did they do to that poor thing? Mix up the sugar and salt?” He gagged and sputtered like a beached fish, desperate for water. “And did you seriously stomach that just to prank me? I’d be impressed if I didn’t need to drink a lake so I can breathe again.”

“I would never!” Dimitri’s unthinking protest died on his tongue. If he said any more, he’d have to admit the real reason he had just fed the man he admired what was apparently a block of salt.

Claude, now chugging a mug of something to clear the taste, locked eyes over the rim of his drink. When he set it down, the line of his lips remained flat. “Now that you mention it, I think you’re right. You’d never do something like that on purpose. You’re too much of a goody-two-shoes for a bit of devious fun.” He wiped a hand over his mouth, resting his chin upon the palm as his elbow hit the table. “Dimitri, is there something wrong with your sense of taste?”

Dimitri could lie. Deny it and play the whole thing off as a joke. But Claude had used his name and was looking at him with eyes that belonged among the stars overhead, distant but full of warmth. Dimitri owed it to them both to be honest.

“Truthfully...I can’t taste anything. I haven’t been able to since the Tragedy. I’m sorry for misleading you,” he murmured.

Now to wait for the inevitable barrage of questions. Wondering what he’d tried to fix it. Asking why he’d hidden it all this time. Reminding him how miserable it was to miss out on something so fundamental to most people’s happiness and that brought his friends such joy to create. It must have sounded like a horrific deformity to a man like Claude who adored feasts as much as most people loved their home after a long absence.

Claude cocked his head, weighing which of the dozen questions to ask. “So what’s your favorite thing to eat?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you like warm foods? Crunchy ones? Maybe something with a little chew?” Claude elaborated, gnashing his teeth to demonstrate.

Dimitri blinked. “Ah. I...I like warm foods. Soft or creamy. The texture is nice.”

“Soft and warm…” Claude tapped a finger against his chin. He snapped as an idea hit him. “I’ve got it! Hold right here. Promise I’ll only be a minute.”

He was gone in a flash. Even if Dimitri had wanted to move, disbelief had rooted him in his seat. Claude, lover of numerous cuisines, banquet connoisseur, and a man with the inquisitiveness of twenty cats jammed in a handbasket hadn’t asked a single question about Dimitri’s condition. No pity, no frustration. Only a desire to know what Dimitri could enjoy, as if his main concern was making the king happy rather than making him understand Almyra. Like they were old, intimate friends.

_ Like we’re courting _ , came an optimistic whisper from a part of Dimitri he had thought disappeared years ago.

When Claude returned, it was with a small bowl, the inside of which was filled with something that had a golden-brown crust. He thrust it and a spoon towards Dimitri. “Here. Give it a try. I think you’ll like it.”

A smile slipped out as the king lifted his utensil, pressing past the golden surface to find a creamy center beneath. The warmth of the dish radiated through his hand as he lifted a spoonful. It stuck together like pudding, and when he held it under his nose, he smelled a manner of cheese tangled with something sweeter. Honey, most likely.

Dimitri closed his lips around the spoon. He moaned as the dessert oozed over his tongue, thick and velvety. It felt like home. 

“It’s perfect. Truly. Thank you, Claude, this was exceptionally kind of you,” Dimitri praised after he swallowed. 

Claude shook his head. He didn’t take a portion for himself, enraptured by whatever the king’s face was doing. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t make sure you had the finest Almyra has to offer? I want you to enjoy yourself here.” He winked. “In every sense.”

"Claude, forgive me for presuming, but...are you…” Dimitri swallowed again, but there was no food in his mouth. “Do you intend to court me? Or...something else?"

He thought he heard a note of strain in the prince’s laugh. Claude’s eyes glittered under the light of the torches. "That's a conversation better had in a place a little less public, don't you think? Why don't we head back to your room?"

He held out his hand. Dimitri took it without question.

Felix would have told him that he should be warier when it came to the royalty of a foreign nation. But Claude could never be foreign to him. Not since he’d seen the enchanting light of his brightest smile and heard the beauty of his dreams.

Their walk back was amicable but charged. The air hung thick between the two men like they were staring at each other through the double panes of Fhirdiad’s windows. Behind them, the distant roar of Pasar’s jubilation played accompaniment to the steady drumming of their footsteps, echoing through the deserted wings of the palace. It followed them back to Dimitri’s room.

"Did I ever tell you how my dad and Nader became blood brothers?" Claude said, apropos of nothing. He shut the door and the rest of the world out behind them.

Dimitri cocked his head, gesturing to a chair for Claude to sit. It was better to have important conversations while sitting down, and though he didn’t know what they were about to discuss, the atmosphere bordering on cloying suggested he should be prepared for something big. "I don't believe so. Go on."

"My dad wasn't the favorite to be king either, or so I've been told.” Claude took the seat and twiddled his braid between restless fingers. “When his older brother died at Fodlan's throat, everyone figured it was Aunt Leila, the ambitious one, who would get the job instead of the scrawny brat prince who was never raised to rule."

"Your father isn't that small,” Dimitri mumbled. A true statement by Fodlan standards, but judging by all the massive opponents he’d seen in the ring today, maybe not Almyran ones.

“You’d be a lot more convincing saying that if you weren’t half-a-head taller than both of us.” Claude’s unimpressed stare made Dimitri feel a full head shorter. “In any case, as the story goes, he’d basically given up on the throne until he met my mother. She convinced him that his dreams were worth fighting for after they met on opposite sides of Fodlan’s Locket. But he couldn’t do it alone. Luckily, while he was busy  _ not  _ making moves on my mom,” the sarcastic lean of his voice suggested there was another family story there, “he was also fighting alongside Almyra’s most infamous young general.”

“And that was Nader?”

“Yep. They were inseparable on the battlefield. Unstoppable, too. And when my dad started to question his path as a soldier instead of trying to become the leader of his people, Nader was the one who promised him they’d change Almyra together.”

“So he’s been your father’s right hand all these years.” Dimitri smiled as the pleasant ache of seeing another live out his dreams washed over him. “That’s a lovely story. It reminds me of my father’s relationship with Rodrigue when I was a child. I’d always wished for a bond like that of my own.”

“I was hoping you’d say so.” Claude’s face was conspicuously absent any grin as his fingers fell from his braid into his lap. “Although my mom might be my dad’s true love, there is no one he trusts more than Nader in matters great or small. That’s what a blood brother is in Pasar. A warrior’s strength. And I’ve come to realize that you…” Claude’s right hand dipped into his sash. “You’ve become my strength, too, Dimitri. We may be very different people, but it’s those differences that make us work together. You’re the honesty and security to my scheming and risk-taking. I want to share the same bond with you that my dad has with Nader.”

Claude produced a dagger from his sash while he spoke, the red twine wound around the hilt more breathtaking than any engagement ring. 

“I want you to be my blood brother.”

The confession battered Dimitri’s heart with the emotional gravity of a marriage proposal, life-changing yet unlike anything he’d experienced in Fodlan. This was uncharted territory. Common sense dictated he should refuse until he had a better understanding of what Claude was asking beyond the General’s brief explanation earlier that night. Pledging a lifetime to someone wasn't a decision to be made hastily, especially as king. It was meant to be earned over months of courting, crafted through political importance, or bought through extreme generosity. Claude had none of those things.

What Claude had was a history forged in battle, friendship, and compassion. To Dimitri, that was worth far more than the stilted formality of Faerghus etiquette. Accepting these ties was not a choice, for any choice the king might have made had happened over a year ago when he’d followed the light of Claude’s star out of the darkness and into a future Dimitri had been blind to. To say yes now was merely an acknowledgment of everything they had become.

The king sucked in a breath to tell Claude as much.

"Wait!” Claude blurted out. His chest quaked as he exhaled, the fist around his dagger going white. “There’s...well, there’s something else you need to know before you say anything. It’s true that I've wanted to do this for a while but...ah…” Conflicted emerald eyes dropped to his knees. “In the interest of transparency, you should know I’m only doing this with you right now because Farah won't join me as my right hand unless I do. I realize that’s a pretty despicable reason to ask someone to share their life with you. All I can do is tell you that I would have asked you eventually anyway. I hope you can trust I’m telling the truth."

Dimitri believed him. Not only because this was Claude, a man full of underhanded surprises but not the kind of cruelty it would take to break a heart on purpose, but also because the prince squirmed as he said it, trembling with the effort of keeping his heart exposed.

Nothing had ever terrified Claude as much as someone learning the unfettered truth about him. And yet here he was, choosing vulnerability. Risking his future by offering more reason for Dimitri to reject him simply because he felt the king deserved the full truth. It was exactly the sort of hard honesty blood brothers were meant to share from Dimitri’s limited understanding.

Claude sat unnaturally still while awaiting an answer, like a deer who’d noticed a sleeping lion nearby and feared it was hungry for venison. If Dimitri hesitated, the prince would run. So he pounced swiftly, crossing the room and wrapping both hands over Claude's on the dagger before he could spring away.

Dimitri smiled, though Claude hadn’t dared to look up yet to see it. "You think of me as your strength, yet believe I would turn my back on you now? I am not so fickle, Claude. I know you. I cherish you. Finding a way to express your heart and come closer to your dreams in the same action is remarkably clever. I would expect nothing less from you."

The green of dawn peeking through morning leaves flicked up behind a brown fringe. “Just...to be clear. You’re saying…?”

“I’m saying yes. I could think of no greater honor than bonding with you. Or, ah, sharing your ties, if that’s the correct way to...”

Claude’s lips were on Dimitri’s, suffocating anything else he intended to say. The king squawked into his mouth. Dimitri’s mind spun as Claude’s sudden assault shattered the flimsy barriers still present between them, an archer’s fingers inviting him closer by tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He tried to kiss back. Unnatural but full of potential, the sensation reminded Dimitri of a new lance drill, a promising awkwardness that could one day make his blood sing. Practicing this would undoubtedly yield the same results.

Drawing back with the flush of a desert sunrise dusting his skin, Claude chuckled, “Sorry about that. Probably should have asked first.”

“I take it that wasn’t part of the official ceremony?” Dimitri could feel the stupid smile stretching his lips.

“Not exactly.” Claude’s amusement wrapped his words with a sweetness Dimitri wished he could taste. “Not that a lot of blood brothers don’t kiss, but it’s not required, exactly.”

“Improper or not, I’m glad it was you who shared my first kiss,” the king murmured in return. And with Claude’s hand still fluttering along the wisps of hair that had fallen free from Dimitri’s half-ponytail, he had every intention of making it his first ten kisses.

The hand abruptly withdrew, bracing against his chest. “Wait, hold up. First kiss?” Claude’s smile was gone. “I had assumed that you’d...you know. Done the deed.”

Dread descended over Dimitri. He was so used to keeping it a secret that he'd forgotten how debaucherous his love life would appear to Claude when he told the unfettered truth. The king of Faerghus, a whore who had sought pleasures of the flesh without romance nor marriage. A man who’d slaked his lust with the mouth of another, yet never known the loving press of lips against his own. 

Dimitri’s heart thrashed in its cage like a trapped wolf, so violent that Claude must have been able to feel it through his shirt, yet his tongue was prepared to speak. If Claude could meet him with honesty tonight, then he deserved the same. “You are correct. I’m not a virgin. However, my partner and I never kissed. Not...” He cleared his throat. “Not properly, anyway.”

Claude perked like a sighthound who’d caught a flash of movement to chase. “Wait, you mean to tell me you never once gave in to the temptation to share a little smooch? Not even in the heat of the moment?”

“Never. It was part of the ground rules we set. Building that sort of attachment was too big of a risk.” Dimitri could practically hear the ratcheting of gears in Claude’s brain as he tried to work out who this mystery partner was. Dimitri needed to put a stop to it before Claude’s rampant inquisitiveness distracted them from what they came here to do. “We can discuss it later. I’d still like to do the ceremony now if that’s alright with you.”

A flicker of annoyance in Claude’s eye at being interrupted promised this conversation was not over. “Right, of course. I suppose we’ve got to take care of the formalities first if we want to get to the good stuff.” Claude winked again and Dimitri clenched his jaw to keep his fantasies in check. A kiss and a little flirting was not carte blanche to explore the more salacious acts his mind had conjured these past months. “In any case, the official part of it is simple. A drop of blood each in some wine for us to drink, and we each tie one of these strings around the other’s braid.”

“That’s it?” Knightings took at least an hour and marriages an entire day in Faerghus. Dimitri wouldn’t disparage Almyran tradition in front of Claude, but to promise absolute devotion to someone in a matter of minutes felt glib to him.

“It wasn’t always that way,” Claude explained. “Once upon a time, there was a whole grand ceremony that took weeks. If you wanted to be someone’s blood brother you had to first hunt a beast together. Then you’d make twine from its fur that you dipped in the beast’s carcass. After that, the pair of you would feast on its meat while you shared a drink of wine mixed with your blood and drunkenly tied your entrail-soaked fur mat into the other person’s hair. I’d like to think we’ve gotten a lot more civilized since then.”

Some of that sounded too much like the life Dimitri had lost in a murderous fog. Perhaps an abridged ceremony was for the best. “I see. Well, if I had known this was your intention tonight, I would have brought a wine glass back with me. I suppose one of us will need to head out to grab one.”

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell anyone we passed on the wine if you don’t.”

Sputtered frustration met the prince’s easy smile. “Claude, this is important!”

“Trust you to be more uptight about Almyran traditions than the actual Almyran,” Claude chortled. Guilt lanced through Dimitri, but the prince’s laughter faded before he could wallow. “You’re right, though. This  _ is  _ important. I don’t want you or anyone else thinking I’m not serious.”

“I’ll go fetch a glass,” Dimitri offered.

A manacle of Claude’s fingers around his wrist prevented the king from stepping towards the door. “No need. All jokes aside, the real reason I took so long is because I snuck in here after talking to Farah to deliver a cup and wine for tonight. I had to be prepared in case you said yes. It’s in the bottom drawer of the desk.”

Calling what Claude had stashed in the drawer a cup was like calling a castle a house. The golden chalice encircled by twin wyverns had the stately presence of a family heirloom, and though Dimitri knew nothing of Almyran wines, he suspected the alcohol beside it was equally ancient and precious. 

He shook his head in awe, delivering the pair into Claude’s waiting hands. "Always one step ahead. You truly are a master tactician, even in this." He winced as his mind caught up to his mouth. The prince was too busy opening the bottle to react. "Ah, apologies, I forgot you don't like that name."

Claude didn’t look up from the poured wine. "It’s fine. At least it’s a compliment.”

“It’s not fine. I know it bothers you. If I am to be your blood brother, I need to be more mindful of your dislikes,” Dimitri insisted.

“No one’s perfect, Dimitri. Not even me. Besides, I’m pretty sure I never explained why I hated being called that." The prince pricked the side of his finger as he spoke, squeezing a drop of blood into their drink without meeting Dimitri’s eye. "Titles are important here. You’ve heard them - Cyrus the Indomitable, Nader the Undefeated, Salasi the Suncatcher, Farah the Victorious. You can only get them by performing exceptional acts and being recognized by the king.” His laughter was barbed. “I spent most of my childhood determined to earn a real title. Prove I was worth something in Almyra despite being an outsider. And yet, here I remain nothing more than Claude, the unremarkable crown prince, while in Fodlan I earned title after title that meant absolutely nothing to the place I grew up.” Claude snorted derisively, holding the chalice and dagger out to Dimitri. “It’s petty, I know."

"No pettier than me asking you to call me by my name,” Dimitri argued as he added his blood to the drink. “The way we are addressed. What we were raised to value. These things can shape a man’s identity in many ways. It would be hypocritical to dismiss your feelings on the matter."

Claude smiled and retrieved the cup, swirling it. "Such kingly wisdom. I should have guessed that the man whose only request to me was that I call him by his name would understand." 

"I do understand. However, I would like to give you a special name of your own, if that’s alright.”

“A special name?” A manicured eyebrow raised. “That sounds suspiciously like revenge for calling you Your Kingliness.”

Dimitri played along, wearing a puppy’s pleading facade. “You truly think me so crass? All I intended was to give you a devoted nickname for private occasions, now that I am free to express your importance to me. I was thinking… 'my heart'?"

Claude’s wide eyes and slack jaw were worth the strain of holding in his giggles. Dimitri managed to maintain his calm for a dozen breaths, watching the prince forget how to breathe as his skin reddened like an unsuspecting lobster thrown in boiling water until an ugly snort burst through Dimitri’s stony sincerity. Once it was out, laughter followed, hysterical and free.

That dispelled whatever had bewitched Claude. The prince’s glare could have made Felix run for cover. "I'm going to hope for your sake you aren't laughing at me."

"No, no of course not!” Dimitri fought to reply between gasps for air. “It's just...I have a weakness for puns. They're so terrible one can't help but laugh."

"A pun?" Anger softened to confusion, then bewilderment. "Don’t tell me that you meant ‘my hart’. As in ‘my deer’. The kind with hooves and antlers."

"And as in my dear, the one I hold in the highest esteem." Dimitri dissolved into another fit of laughter at the extended play on words.

Claude punched him in the arm, but he was smiling again. He swirled their wine, gearing up for an inaugural taste. "You're terrible. I can't believe I'm going to spend the rest of my life bonded to someone with such an awful sense of humor."

"But you still want to."

"I've wanted to for months.” He lifted the drink. “And you?"

"Since the first time I saw your true smile."

Claude made a gagging noise that sounded like he’d choked on the metal against his lips. 

"You are such a sap,” Claude grumbled into his drink. It would have been more convincing if he wasn’t hiding most of his flushed face behind the golden chalice. When he finished taking a mouthful, Claude held the cup out to Dimitri. “You only need to sip it. Then we can do the ties.”

Dimitri had long since lost any squeamishness about blood, but Claude’s worry that he might be disturbed by ingesting a minuscule amount of it was touching. Dimitri downed his portion in a single gulp. When he finished, Claude was holding up one of the two red threads, unwound from his dagger’s hilt. He’d set aside the undressed dagger next to the bed.

“May I?” The fingers of Claude’s empty hand brushed over the braid he’d set in Dimitri’s hair that morning.

The king’s face heated. If this was a hallucination, it was a welcome departure from his mind’s usual tricks.

“Please.”

Claude tugged Dimitri’s braid free of the blue ribbon, quickly replacing the non-descript tie at the end with his brilliant crimson cord. He wrapped it dozens of times with quivering fingers, finishing off the knot he pulled taut with a tiny bow. 

And just like that, their relationship had changed in the eyes of Almyra. 

_ Like exchanging rings _ , Dimitri thought as Claude pet the length of his braid again. The prince was staring at the new splash of vermillion like he was a pious man gazing upon the Goddess herself. Wordlessly, he extended the other red cord to Dimitri.

Draping it loosely across his fingers, the king and raised his hands to mirror Claude’s motions. He cradled the prince’s braid in his left palm, marveling at its tightly woven texture. Claude had always taken good care of his hair. And his face. And his body, for that matter. 

There would be time to think about that later. He needed to focus. Memories of bent needles and snapped thread under Mercedes’ patient guidance reminded Dimitri of the dire consequences if he couldn’t keep his strength in check.

Claude’s face twitched, warring between a smile and a grimace. “Is something wrong? Not getting cold feet now, are you?”

“Absolutely not. I want to do this with you.” Dimitri replied with unwavering confidence. “It’s only...You know that I’m not good with delicate things. I’m worried I will break your string.”

“So? It’s just a string. If it breaks, I’ll get another.” Claude patted him on the shoulder, trying to be reassuring. The hand that was usually so comforting rested tense against his skin.

Dimitri would not let his foolish insecurities about his strength feed Claude’s fear of rejection.

In the end, his tie was not a pretty thing. Most would even call it ugly, too disheveled to belong against the skin of someone as polished as Claude, who would be forced to fix it come morning. That didn't stop the rush of pride. Dimitri's fingers traced along the braid, memorizing its unique texture beneath fawning fingerpads. Impulsively, he slipped it back behind Claude’s ear, trailing his touch down an earlobe to explore the cool rings of metal hanging from his piercing.

Dimitri’s hand jerked away when the back of it brushed against something wet. "Claude? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

Claude laughed through his tears. His quivering smile reminded Dimitri of a newborn flower opening to greet the sun in spring. “I’m...I’m relieved. That’s all. No need to worry,” he said, as though Dimitri could do anything less.

The king held open an arm. As long as Dimitri had known him, Claude’s instinct was to run when cornered. But things were different now. Now, with a vow of trust bound in red, he could run to Dimitri when things hit too close to home and know he would find asylum.

The heavy warmth of Claude in his arms was something Dimitri would like to get used to.

"So..." Dimitri cleared his throat, though it did nothing to wash away the inappropriate lust building inside him the longer he thought about Claude’s body pressed against his. Perhaps a kiss on the forehead for comfort wouldn’t be out of the question. "May I...ah...?"

"Strip me?" Claude interjected with a devious wink.

Dimitri floundered for a response, praying the prince wasn’t at the right angle to feel how readily his body responded to that suggestion. "I was going to ask if I might kiss you again. On the forehead."

"I'd be insulted if you didn't at least kiss me on the lips.” Claude grinned up at him, discreetly wiping the last streaks of water from his cheeks.

Dimitri didn't know if this meant they were dating or something else entirely, but as his lips found Claude's again, his thoughts scattered. The hot meeting of their mouths consumed him, smoother and more passionate with every gasped breath. Claude’s fingers rose to tangle in his hair. Dimitri followed his lead, straining to keep his strength in check as he pulled Claude to the bed. Their bodies heaved with desire against one another as a hunger, so long restrained, threatened to tear away from his tenuous control like a feral dog with food just out of reach. 

A surge of confidence had Dimitri's hand pulling Claude's shirt free of his sash. He craved to splay his hands on the solid chest that had long teased from the deep necklines of Claude's favorite shirts. Dimitri groaned at the sensation of soft, coarse hairs combing through the tender gaps in his fingers as his hand slid beneath the hem and up the length of a body that pushed into his open palms. 

"You're more perfect than I dared imagine. Exquisite in body and mind,” Dimitri murmured. He lowered his chin to kiss a necklace into Claude’s skin, smiling as the other man wriggled under his feathery affections. He smelled intoxicating, like smoke and spice and something unrecognizable but undeniably, rousingly him. “That a man like me could be so fortunate as to hold your trust is unfathomable."

Claude huffed and shoved at Dimitri’s shirt in return. "Well, get to fathoming because I'm here to stay."

The archer’s chest blessed with supple muscle from a lifetime of pulling a bow now on display, Dimitri dimly noted that Claude kept everything neatly groomed. Inviting. The hair trailing towards a promise of greater pleasures was unsurprisingly darker than Sylvain's, a thought Dimitri didn't want to dwell on lest the tangled web of his arousal got caught in memories of his other bedmate and their games rather than the man with him now.

But when Dimitri gripped Claude’s sash, desperate to remove the last barrier between himself and the powerful, pliant body beneath him, a hand gripped his wrist. Dimitri immediately let go. "I'm sorry, I got carried away. I didn't mean to presume..."

"No." Claude released his wrist, raising his palm to cup the king’s cheek. "You didn't think wrong, Dimitri. Don’t apologize. I do want you."

Dimitri shook his head, his messy blonde mane that had come undone at some point obscuring the vision of his good eye. "You wouldn't have stopped me without a reason. Please don’t feel as though you must do this. Our bond is supposed to be built on trust."

"That's exactly the problem," Claude sighed. His hand fell away, arms crossing tight over his bare chest. "Even here, with the two of us ready to rip each other’s clothes off, I'm not good at trust."

"You trusted me enough to share your ties with me," Dimitri countered.

Claude snorted. "Under duress. Not that I regret it for a second," he added quickly. "But this is something else. The pathetic truth is I've never been able to sleep with someone without having a dagger within arm's reach."

Dimitri glanced at the bedside where Claude’s dagger gleamed in the moonlight streaming through his window. "If you need..."

Claude didn't let him finish. "No. I know you'd be fine with it. But that’s not the way I want it to go. I want it to be different with you."

_ I want to trust you enough to go without it _ , Dimitri heard.

He didn't understand the depth of Claude's demons. Dimitri had seen shadows of them in his smile, the way he drew people in but didn't let them close, his familiarity with poisons and assassins, and the elaborate schemes he wove because somewhere in his mind, one wrong move meant the end of everything. Fragile threads of hope and fear pulled Claude through the motions of life like a divine puppeteer. There was a time when Dimitri was the same. 

But Claude had cut half his strings and taught him to stand without them. The least Dimitri could do now was show Claude that when he was ready to cut his own strings, the king of Faerghus would be the safety net keeping him from breaking.

"Then we will wait until you can do it without the dagger," Dimitri declared.

Claude’s smile hurt. "Thanks. But that must be incredibly disappointing for you."

"I admit, I would very much like to commit to memory every plane and contour of your body before I find myself alone in Fhirdiad once again. But giving you what you need and respecting the trust you've granted me is far more important than any base desire." Dimitri rolled away so Claude wouldn’t be tempted to argue the point because of the not-entirely-subdued bulge still between his legs.

"Then I should do the same."

"What do you...?"

Claude's fingers were in his hair again, and Dimitri bit his lip to withhold the reflexive moan rising within him.

"There are other ways to cure a man's loneliness. Come down here and sleep next to me," Claude whispered.

Dimitri fell willingly, his eye wandering back to the bright red reminder of their future together at the end of Claude’s braid. He brushed it away from where it obscured part of Claude's face, and a warm cheek pressed into his hand. Perhaps Dimitri wasn't the only one who needed this closeness.

"Thank you," Dimitri whispered.

"Always," Claude whispered back, like he knew exactly what Dimitri was thanking him for, though the king himself didn't. He threw an arm over Dimitri’s waist and rubbed gentle circles into his back.

"If this is a dream, it's the most pleasant one I've ever had,” the king sighed, gathering Claude closer.

Claude smiled, tender and radiant as his eyes crinkled up like protective moons watching over his partner. "I like this dream, too. Maybe we should both stay in it a while longer."

"I'd like that.”

Sleep claimed them not long after, intertwined beneath a star-filled sky. Tomorrow, there would be people to talk to and politics to navigate with a never-ending march of plots to unravel. Tonight, however, they would relish their safe harbor in the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard to believe they've finally made it this far! My schedule may be off for a little while since this chapter was a doozy to write, but next up is back to politics and what the change in their relationship means for everyone else.
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading!


	12. Eve of a New Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and Dimitri share their new relationship with the world. Claude says something to his father that he's wanted to for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has very strong themes of racism, both in a systemic and personal fashion. It also deals with emotionally abusive and dismissive family and does not fix these behaviors. Please read with caution, especially in light of current events.

Claude had never risen early without a reason. However, being a light sleeper was a matter of survival. So when something heavy and solid constricted the flow of air to his lungs by squeezing his chest as the burgeoning Almyran sun heralded the end of their all-night festival, Claude jolted awake despite the hour.

_ Assassin, _ was Claude’s first thought, pushing against the immovable vice. His eyes snapped open. This was not his room. Claude shoved at the thing around his chest again, desperate to get his air back so he could think without a haze of panic coloring his thoughts. Hysteria would get him killed. He needed to figure out where he was, who was holding him, and how to get free.

All three answers came to him in a puff of air tickling his neck. A familiar groan sounded in Claude's ear, and the restraints disappeared on their own with a bounce of the mattress. Those hadn’t been ropes or metal bars holding him in place. They were arms. Heavy arms with muscles as strong as the chains that held the palace gates open. 

Still wrestling to calm his breathing, Claude flipped over and came face-to-face with the golden mane of Faerghus’ King. Dimitri's hair splayed like a tangled bird’s nest across his pillow, crowned by a single braid whose red beacon served as a reminder of the night they had shared. He was still asleep. Wiped clean of worry, Dimitri's face held no menace in its scarred eye and tender expression.

Shame surged behind the ebbing panic. Claude had been terrified of  _ Dimitri _ . The same Dimitri who had dedicated his life to overcoming the savagery of his past. The one who would jump headfirst into an inferno to save a friend. His blood brother, who, if he had been awake, would have been devastated by his struggles to get away.

There was nothing to fear in this bed. Breathing easier, Claude’s forefinger traced a fascinated line down the king's braid. 

Just Dimitri. A man who frustrated Claude, surprised him, inspired him, and bolstered his courage. A dream of his childhood made solid beneath his fingers.

Since he was a boy, Claude had known he wasn't meant to have a blood brother. "No Almyran would want you" they had said with their snide glances and biting platitudes. And Claude, a child who accepted vicious truths more readily than gentle lies, had believed them. 

But now he had Dimitri. True, the king wasn't from Almyra, but if Claude's dream came true of a united world, did it really matter that Claude's blood brother was from Fodlan?

_ Yes _ , whispered a dark corner of his heart, one carved out by the cruelty of his kin.  _ You proved them right. You know a Fodlan can't be a real blood brother, but you settled for him anyway _ .

Claude shook that nonsense from his head. It didn't matter that Dimitri wasn’t Almyran. He balanced Claude’s spirit like a pulsing sea wrestling with the whims of a capricious gale. Their disparate lives only made them stronger together, and their respect for each other promised a storm that would change the world. Not even the romantic epics in Adrestria's opera houses could weave a tale of a more powerful bond than what they shared. 

No one would take this happiness away from Claude. Not even his own mind.

A knock echoed through the room. 

Startled, Claude’s fingers jolted from the soft curve of Dimitri’s cheek. He could guess who it was waiting outside from the last time he'd accidentally overstayed his welcome in Dimitri's room, but Claude hadn’t expected Felix to rouse his king from bed every morning. A strange habit for someone who hated getting involved in the affairs of others. Perhaps something had changed between them beyond what Claude had witnessed, something that had honed the worried agitation Felix dragged around with him like an old, beloved blade he couldn’t bear to part with.

They would talk on it later. The knuckles hit wood again, signaling Claude had a maximum of five seconds before Felix burst into the room if Dimitri didn’t respond. Claude should wake the king up. Let him deal with the irate advisor outside his door. But Dimitri sighed delicately, seeking out Claude’s departed touch without waking, and Claude decided he could risk being the king’s shield from his shield just this once.

Felix threw the door open as predicted, taking in the sight of a half-dressed prince of Almyra toying with the hair of his equally undressed king and oldest friend in bed.

The swordsman crossed his arms. Though Felix wouldn’t meet his eyes, Claude didn’t see any embarrassed pink scorching the tips of his ears. “You're both expected at breakfast. Your mother's orders.”

The prince waved. “Good morning to you, too, Felix. I take it by your affronted tone that mom also asked you to come to family breakfast."

An affirmative grunt.

"You really have a knack for rubbing elbows with royalty, don't you? Advisor to the king of Faerghus, breakfast guest of the Queen of Almyra...if I'm not careful, you'll be snagging all the fame and glory before I get a taste,” Claude groaned. Felix shot him a disgusted glare, and he caged a chuckle in his chest. “Thanks for letting us know. I’ll get him up and we’ll meet you there. Oh, but do you mind doing me a favor on your way?”

Felix’s hand rested on his hip. “I'm not an errand boy. What do you want?”

“Invite the general and her little companion to talk to us afterward if you see them? I’ve got some business to attend to now that my situation has changed.” Claude held back a joke about how he was trying to be a good friend by letting Felix talk to his Almyran 'girlfriend'.

The swordsman's jaw worked as though he could hear the taunt just by meeting Claude’s charming gaze. Then, his attention flickered to the side and the anger dissolved. Claude belatedly realized the red of his and Dimitri’s braids hung plainly in view. 

The prince stilled, a deer with nowhere to run. Felix was no Almyran. Still, he’d taken enough interest in Farah’s little speech about blood brothers the other day that he was sure to work out what it meant.

The advisor nodded once, turning away. “Fine. Just hurry up.”

Claude’s mouth worked without his consent, "That's it? No comment on your king's new fashion statement?"

"What do you expect me to say?" Felix shrugged.

"I don't know, maybe congratulations? Or some sort of threat on my life, but I'd prefer congratulations."

The swordsman snorted out something akin to laughter. "Congratulations on pulling your head out of your ass long enough to ask him. It took you long enough."

"I guess that's fair," Claude allowed, smothering his levity to keep the bed from shaking. 

Felix dawdled a moment longer. A smile, so faint that anyone else would think it an illusion, crawled over what Claude could see of the man’s face. 

“Ah...thanks,” Felix muttered. “For helping him. He’s turning out to be a not half-bad king, thanks to your meddling.”

Claude shined with private joy. “You’re welcome, Felix. Though most of that credit belongs to him. And thanks for keeping an eye out for him in Faerghus. I'm glad I was wrong about you.”

There was the blush, consuming Felix’s pale skin like a ravenous swarm of peach flies. He jerked his head away, nodding to acknowledge Claude’s statement and stalked out the door. It shut with a solid thunk.

Beside Claude, the king of Faerghus moaned, rapidly blinking pale lashes to fight through the comforting veil of sound sleep for the land of the waking.

“Easy there, Your Kingliness. I took care of everything,” Claude soothed. Dimitri’s good eye cracked open, the clear blue of a new day dawned within it.

“Claude?” he mumbled. Then, with a tiny smile, “My heart.”

The prince groaned melodramatically though it failed to hide the elation spreading across his face. “That awful pun is going to stick, isn’t it? The things I do for you, Dimitri.”

“But you don’t regret it?”

Claude swiped his thumb under that hopeful eye. “Never.”

Still too exhausted to say anything more, Dimitri sought out Claude’s archery-calloused fingers like a needy dog, comically shameless in his half-conscious state. To think, this could have been their lives long ago if war and politics hadn’t tried to scoop out their insides with the same uncompromising hatred that had ultimately devoured Edelgard. 

Then again, without those hardships, they might never have reached out to one another. Dimitri might never have stretched his hand beyond his borders, instead content to be another kind but impotent king at the whims of his advisors. Claude might still believe that xenophobia was the only major problem he needed to solve as a ruler, rather than acknowledging the other hardships that chained many of his people to an unhappy life. If the pair of them had not lived through a nightmare to get here, Almyra’s throne might not be within Claude’s grasp.

And the throne would remain out of his grasp if he spent too long enjoying this instead of preparing to face his father.

Claude tapped the bicep that had curled around him again to rouse Dimitri. “As much as I hate getting up in the morning, I did just chase off Felix. I don’t think he’ll stay away for long if we’re late for breakfast with my family.”

That snapped Dimitri from his leonine sighing against the prince’s palm. “Your family?” His eye widened, lifting his head far enough from the pillow to see the scarred one stretch with emotion as well. “Was I supposed to ask them for your hand? I know we are not...not…” His lips mashed into a white line. “We’re not  _ married _ , or perhaps even courting by Almyran standards, but I’m afraid I know so little about Almyran customs, and to think we’ve forged a bond behind their backs without any…”

“Dimitri.” The king hushed. “You have nothing to worry about. I’ve got all the political stuff handled, okay? My mom and dad already like you. It’ll be fine. Well, as long as we show up on time.”

Unfortunately, that meant Claude would have no time to return to his room to change. Leaving a kiss on Dimitri’s scarlet cheek, the prince lifted himself from his bed and shuffled to the mirror to tidy his appearance. There would be enough gossip over breakfast without his rumpled clothing and bedhead adding to it.

While Dimitri rustled through the drawers behind him, Claude inspected the proof of their bond in the mirror. His braid was in desperate need of fixing after being tied by hands used to breaking everything they touched. Several hairs curled through the crimson threads, the tie was so loose in places it slid off in unsightly loops, and its frayed end looked like the tail of a lion with mange.

Another day, Claude would have Dimitri rebraid his hair to build his partner's confidence in delicate work. Today, however, Claude needed his appearance to be perfect. He rewound the string three separate times before he was satisfied, taking long enough for Dimitri to finish his morning routine, which consisted of throwing on his eyepatch, a shirt, and running his hands through the strands of hair not cinched up into a braid. Nevertheless, he looked like a king.

Claude cursed his luck that he’d attached himself to a man whose regal presence was so intrinsic that he could roll out of bed without so much as a comb through his hair and still have a stranger call him ‘Your Majesty’ while the prince had to mess with his hair and outfit for a solid hour to look classier than a common brigand. At least he could admire instead of compete with Dimitri's royal aura now.

Claude shooed them both out the door. He took off at a brisk walk, ignoring the servants and guards as Dimitri heeled next to him with aborted strides of his long legs. The door to the family feasting hall was open when they arrived, thank goodness, a sign no one had started without them. Judging by the assault of savory smells wafting into the hall, it had been a near thing. 

Claude burst into the room with the nonchalance of a man who’d been doing this since childhood.

His lips curled when he heard Dimitri’s gasp, a sound stoppered in his throat by the muzzle of kingly etiquette. If there was one thing Claude had learned from eavesdropping on Sylvain’s complaints at the academy about northern food being so plain he might die of boredom when he returned home (one of many unassuming excuses to avoid Gautier territory that slipped off Sylvain’s tongue as easily as the women he bedded), it was that Faerghus didn’t see food as something to indulge in. Food was a necessity. So scarce when frozen winds sheared the game from the trees and the icy fingers of winter strangled their country into deathly stillness that Faerghans had adapted to eat everything short of boot leather to survive. Even a king from that wasteland of culinary taste would be satisfied by no more than a day old roll to start his morning.

On second thought, that might be an ungenerous assessment of Faerghus kings. Dimitri was a special case when it came to appreciating food.

Luckily, a true Almyran breakfast was meant to be tasted with the eyes as much as the tongue. The round family table had been filled with dishes, each overflowing with goods from Pasar’s farms. Three varieties of olives and a rainbow of jams on the side. Bread so fresh that it threatened to melt the dozen different cheeses surrounding it. Eggs gathered from the coops that morning and cooked with more vegetables than a Faerghus man saw in a month. A healthy dose of sausage doused in spices that could clear a man's sinuses for the rest of the day. This food was meant to be eaten with vigor and laughter, shared between family as a bright spot in a life full of hardship.

It was home.

“This looks remarkable,” Dimitri whispered, not wanting to interrupt the light conversation floating around the table.

Claude tugged his arm towards their seats. “As we like to say: the land provides. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a bite of the softest cheeses before mom snags them all.”

They settled on the open side of the table. Dimitri sandwiched himself between Felix and Claude, while the king and queen sat together opposite them. Claude's mother leaned over and muttered something in Felix's ear that made him smirk. 

At Cyrus’ other hand, where Nader often took his breakfast, was his sister, Leila, making her first public appearance since her arrival. Clothed in a flowing red coat and veil draped over her hair with pearls woven into the intricate designs of both using golden thread, she was the vision of a traditional Almyran stateswoman. Between her and Claude and in equally impressive dress, Arman talked animatedly to Cyrus. He was in the middle of a harrowing tale involving a shoe lost in the desert during the sandskimmers' whelping season, his jewelry flashing like starlight as he gestured through beams of the morning sun. 

Claude caught his father's eye across the table. Cyrus' smile from Arman's tale faded. The king raised his hand for silence, and in the deafening quiet, the fear Claude had been running from since last night crashed into him.

He had prepared for six years, but what did he truly know about leading a country the size of Almyra? Why did he think he was ready? Optimism was a virtue. Blind confidence in the world was not. Claude's feelings for Dimitri had turned him into the foolish cat who thought fishmongers threw fish at begging strays rather than shoes.

Isabella had been right to warn him about his heart. Taking Dimitri as his blood brother had been a reckless choice. Claude wanted to believe his father, a man who'd married a Fodlan woman against the advice of family and counsel, would understand, but he would be well within his rights to refuse Claude's challenge thanks to that choice. No one wanted to follow a king who brazenly spat on their traditions. Claude couldn't ask them to. Not when he saw that glint of blood red in Dimitri's hair like a ruby set in a golden crown and remembered how his hands trembled as he put it there.

The king of Almyra waited in silence. He embodied a mountain's patience, watching as the stream at its base started the unbelievable task of carving a new path through the rock.

Claude’s aunt had always been more of a landslide.

"Would you look at that?” she cooed, wagging a finger at his braid. Claude gave soundless thanks she wasn’t close enough to touch it. “Cyrus, your little boy's got himself a splash of red, and right after the festival, too. Feeling inspired by your father, dear?"

He hated it when she called him that.

"You might say that. Father did win the throne from you with the help of his blood brother. Any good tactician knows not to mess with something that works,” Claude replied with a breezy wink. He leaned across the table to claim some bread flats and a sampling of cheeses.

An ugly sneer tugged at the edges of Leila's smile. Petty arguments over the crown were frowned upon, and she was too much of a traditionalist to show public resentment about a loss that happened almost 30 years ago. As far as private resentment, however, one need only look to her son to see how deep that poisoned well ran. 

"Yes, it was certainly an ingenious move on his part. Your father played his bid for the crown well." She took a bite of jam-smeared bread and dabbed at the corner of her mouth to hide her twitching lips. "So what strong, Almyran warrior did you bond with to help you fight your battles?” 

And here it came. The feigned shock. The hand over her heart. The haughty glare at Dimitri. 

“Oh, goodness," she stage whispered, "is that your tie in the King of Fodlan's hair? Perhaps you've forgotten after being away so long, Claude, but I'm afraid outsiders can't participate in royal challenges."

"Don't let that trouble you, ma'am. I assure you, Claude is more than capable of handling his challenge without me.” Dimitri’s polite smile was as barbed as a harpoon. “His performance yesterday was nothing short of what they write legends about in Fodlan. Undefeated, so I hear. It's a shame you had to forgo watching your nephew's dominance on the battlefield after coming such a long way. I do hope you're feeling better now."

Claude had to stuff his mouth with a noa fruit to keep from laughing. He had once thought Dimitri naive, but the man had grown up a child-king underestimated and talked over by his court. He’d been perfecting the Faerghus version of this dance his entire life. 

Claude twisted his braid around his finger, grinning. 

"Much better, thank you. I’m only trying to understand why a prince who needs to set an example for his people would bond with an outsider." Leila turned a wheedling smile on the foreign ruler at their table. "No offense meant, King Dimitri. It simply isn’t something that's done here."

Isabella glared at her sister-in-law. Felix opened his mouth, but he shut it again when Dimitri gave a minute shake of his head. This was a stand Claude had to make for himself.

The prince clawed blunt fingernails through the thin fabric covering his knees. "Maybe it should be. Almyra’s been stuck in a cycle of useless prejudices and divisions for too long. We are weaker for it. My time in Fodlan taught me the importance of evolving tradition to help the people, and that without change, we will surely fall.” His gaze darted to Dimitri whose eye glowed warmly in the light of Almyra’s dawning sun. “I’m not going to be the kind of king who fears the outside world.”

Leila coughed up the tea she’d been trying to sip. “A king? Claude, don’t you think you’re getting overzealous? I know you’ve done some incredible things in Fodlan, but the crown is a serious matter, not a trifle that can be given away to anyone like an honorary Barbarossa title,” she argued as though Claude wasn’t a more decorated warrior and leader than the rest of his regiment. She clasped her hands together. “Ah, wait, I understand now! You say you're going to be king because you plan to return to Fodlan with your new blood brother. That is good news indeed! I think you’d be very happy as a king’s consort. It suits you much better than the nastiness of rule here. I know how difficult it’s been for you, nephew, having to work twice as hard as everyone else to overcome your natural setbacks. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come.”

Her dismissal wrapped in half-compliments stung. But he was no longer the angry boy who’d run away from Almyra to find out if there was anyone in the world who would follow a person like him. Claude was a man now. A tried and tested tactician who’d won a civil war of unspeakable proportions, unraveled centuries of lies, and began to reform a third of their continent with the help of his friends in high places. 

He was the crown prince of Almyra and cowards did not keep their crowns.

Claude's voice rang clear above the clatter of his family’s dining. “Father, I wish to fight you for the right of rule.” 

The room stilled. Air flowed like mud through Claude's too tight lungs.

“I accept,” said the king, as though he had been waiting for those words all morning. "Tomorrow evening."

Leila already had her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Cyrus, you cannot seriously be considering this. I know you want to encourage your son to act like the prince he is, but you must be fair. Arman had already issued a challenge. ”

“A challenge that’s under investigation after the attempted murder of your king,” Felix grumbled. He rolled the shoulder which had been shot by an arrow meant for Claude that day.

Leila opened her mouth again, fury wrinkling her face, but before the argument could continue, Arman cut in, placing a hand over his mother's, “It’s alright. Claude hasn’t been able to prove himself to his father in years. I see no harm in giving him this chance. Besides,” he turned to dip his chin towards the irate swordsman across from him, “Advisor Felix is correct. Until the investigation is complete, I cannot rechallenge Uncle Cyrus, and it would be unfair of me to bring Almyra to a halt during the Festival of Kings. I’m certain the people would love to witness a challenge of the throne before they travel home, and as far as I know, General Farah has made no such request despite what we anticipated.”

Without looking up from the eggs he was tearing into, Cyrus grunted, “A wise assessment, nephew. You will make a good leader, whether it is as a king or advisor. You've taught your son well, Leila.”

The king’s sister relented reluctantly, patting her son on the shoulder as he nodded his thanks to Cyrus. “Of course I did. He’s always been a smart boy, just like his mother.” She turned her attention back to Claude. “So who is your right hand? Normally I’d expect your blood brother to fight with you, but outsiders aren't allowed to participate in political matters. I hope that isn’t a disappointment to you, King Dimitri.”

“Not at all,” Dimitri replied magnanimously. “Claude has been a patient teacher of your customs. Moreover, Faerghus has no intention of intervening in foreign affairs. Although I was unable to cross blades with Nader the Undefeated, I've already had my fill of fighting King Cyrus and your son during the festival. They are remarkable warriors.”

That earned a full-bodied laugh from Cyrus, who elbowed his sister, “Remarkable he says, by which he means he trounced us. King Dimitri, you hit like a pack wyvern taking its first saddle.”

“Thank you, but strength means little without the strategy to use it effectively,” Dimitri deflected. “You and your son both outmatch me in that regard, King Cyrus.”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “What is it with you Faerghus men? You either claim you could walk through a blizzard barefoot and bladeless yet still come out alive by skinning a bear with your bare hands, or you refuse anyone who offers you genuine praise. Learn to take a compliment, boy.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Dimitri replied, ducking his head like a scolded child. “My thanks to you for your consideration, King Cyrus. And for the advice, Queen Isabella. I have been told I often fail to take credit where it is due. I will endeavor to be more appreciative.” 

Claude tapped the king's arm. “Careful, or I’ll think you want my mother’s favor more than mine.”

“As he should,” Isabella cackled, waving her half-eaten bread at her son.

“I’m sorry to interrupt this touching moment,” Leila cut in without a hint of remorse, “but I still wonder who your right hand will be. You know you need one, don't you? I worry that you might have forgotten our laws during your long absence.”

“I’m shocked you’d think so little of me, Aunt Leila. Of course, I have one. Someone to more than make up for my  _ natural deficiencies  _ as an Almyran prince, " Claude hissed through teeth clenched into a smile. 

“And? Who would that be?”

“General Farah.”

Only becoming king could compare to the bubble of elation in Claude’s throat as his aunt’s jaw dropped, food only partially chewed.

“What?” she gasped. “ _ How _ ?”

Dimitri answered in Claude's place since his blood brother was too busy silently gloating. “Perhaps you have not heard while he was away, but your nephew is a visionary among men. He excels at uniting people to a common cause. If you had seen him during the war, you would understand how easily he develops friendships and inspires awe wherever he goes. General Farah no doubt realizes what good he can do here in Almyra, the same as the Kingdom and Alliance armies did in Fodlan.”

“A king, an unmatched warrior, and overflowing with praise for you. I can see why you chose this one,” Cyrus hummed, tapping his finger against his lips to mask the amusement pulling them tight.

His sister was less impressed. “Oh yes, we did always know you were  _ special _ , Claude.”

“That’s enough, Leila. I will not have petty squabbles during family breakfast.”

“Forgive me, but I find it hard to feel like a family breakfast with outsiders at the table,” she griped.

"King Dimitri is my son’s blood brother and Advisor Felix is his step-brother.” Out of the corner of his eye, Claude saw Felix’s jaw clench, but he didn’t correct the king’s misunderstanding. “Do not act as if they do not belong. They have as much right to this table as Nader.”

That was the final thrown pebble Liela’s politician facade could take. It shattered. She gestured wildly over the table, sneering at the foreigners across from her. “I know you’ve never been one for tradition, but this is taking it too far! You did not even know of their supposed bond before you invited them, so how can you call these strangers our family?"

"Leila..." 

"Perhaps it is because you only have one child that you are so soft. A married man should have a full home, but your wife could not even bear a second for you. And now she spends more time carousing the countryside than tending to your family!”

“Mother, please,” Arman tried to interject, laying a hand on her arm that she tossed off.

“How I raised Claude is none of your business!” Isabella snapped with dragon fire in her eyes.

Leila barked a cruel laugh. “Raised him? You barely birthed him. He spent six years running away from you and Almyra. And now he dares to usurp the throne my son has trained to be ready for since birth? I think not!”

Cyrus slammed his palms on the table, knocking a plate of poorly-balanced cheese to the floor with a crash. 

“Leila! You forget yourself!” he roared at the now-silent room.

Slowly, Leila's arm dropped. She sank into her seat. Her white-lipped smile was as welcoming as a beehive doused in smoke. 

“Ah, of course, you’re right,” Leila acquiesced. She gently tapped her temple with two painted nails. “Sorry, brother. I fear the stale air in here is aggravating my headache and making me snippy. I should head back to bed.”

The king’s sister did not so much walk as storm out of the room. Their appetites went with her. 

Despite the sour mood, triumph rattled in Claude’s chest. All her wickedness had finally been dragged into the light where everyone could see it rather than hidden behind assassins and backhanded compliments. If only for a moment, his family couldn't look the other way.

Unfortunately, that only made the tension in the room worse. Claude's father and mother left with no more than a pat on the shoulder moments later. Most of the food trays were still full. Felix stood abruptly. 

"Meet me for training when you're done," he said to his king, glancing in Arman's direction.

Felix brushed Dimitri’s arm on his way out. The king swallowed whatever response was on his tongue, clenching his fists as Felix stalked away.

Arman cleared his throat while servants began to clean the vacated places. "I know it’s not my place, but I apologize for my mother. Watching me try to earn the crown has been very stressful for her. She shouldn’t have said those things.”

There was a time when Claude would have said that it was okay. That he understood, though he never did.

He stayed silent.

“She can seek her own forgiveness if she feels remorse for her words,” Dimitri replied.

Arman did not dare argue with that chilly sliver of diplomacy. His earrings jingled as he nodded. “Yes, that is something I've had to come to terms with lately. In any case, congratulations on your bond. Truly."

"Thanks, Arman,” Claude replied, plastering on a smile. Maybe, after tomorrow, he could trust his cousin meant what he said. Today, he was still the competition.

Arman raised a bejeweled hand to his chest, still facing Faerghus’ king. "I know we might not see eye to eye about many things, King Dimitri, but I can appreciate a man who inspires my cousin to be brave. He’s been a runner ever since we were children. The way he demanded a challenge today was inspired. I can only imagine it is the influence of a self-assured man like yourself."

"Claude’s bravery is his own,” Dimitri snapped back. Arman may have stood taller than Claude, but he was a housecat before a lion with how the king loomed. “And when he takes his throne, it will be entirely his own doing. He has my aid, but he doesn’t need it. I advise you to remember that in the future. Underestimating an opponent can have grave consequences as a commander or a king."

A vulpine grin answered him. "As you say. I’m honored to receive your sage counsel, King Dimitri.” Arman’s teeth flashed, turning to face his cousin. “And I look forward to seeing your match tomorrow, Claude. Try to be on time for this one, won't you?"

“As if I would ever miss a chance to show you up,” Claude called back. 

His wink earned a laugh from Arman, kinder than the prince had expected. With two bows, one for each of them, the other crown-hopeful flourished away, a rainbow of gems catching in the sun along the seams of his coat.

“I guess I need to start practicing my dramatic exits if I want to be king,” Claude muttered at his cousin’s glittering back.

His companion didn’t smile. Dimitri’s arms crossed, one hand coming up to scratch at invisible stubble. Lines of distrust carved deep into a face not meant for it. "Forgive me if I'm out of line, but I do not trust him. The way he defended your challenge tomorrow feels like a plot."

"Good instincts, Your Kingliness,” Claude praised with misleading levity. He mimicked Dimitri’s pose. “But there isn't much I can do about it. If there was a scheme I could run to guarantee the crown, I would have already. Arman’s a tough opponent. At least he usually plays fair."

Dimitri's lips quirked. "He tried to assassinate you."

"I didn’t say he played fair by  _ Fodlan  _ standards."

"That’s not comforting."

Claude spread his arms, leading them out of the dining room so the staff could finish cleaning. "Okay, yeah, it isn’t as comforting as us being best buddies, but it’s more comforting than the alternative. If I overcome whatever deadly trial he's concocting, he'll accept my right to rule, no questions asked. Arman's a lot of things, but not a sore loser. Not like his mom."

"A wholly unpleasant woman," Dimitri grumbled.

"Understatement of the year," Claude agreed before a misguided sense of manners could make the king apologize. 

As they turned the corner on their way back towards the guest wing, he spotted General Farah in the distance talking to a palace guard whose arms were overflowing with broken weapons. Nothing like a fighting festival to empty the palace’s reserve armory. 

Claude waved at the pair. Farah raised her hand to acknowledge him. “And there’s my after-breakfast appointment, right on time. Sorry to eat and run. I’ll meet you in your room tonight? I’d offer my own but I think it might be a few too many degrees above freezing for your liking.”

“Naturally. And too messy.”

Claude snorted, “Felix’s reports of my messiness have been grossly exaggerated.” Dimitri raised an eyebrow. “Fine,  _ slightly _ exaggerated. Both of us would still fit in the bed.”

“I’m not certain if it counts as ‘fitting’ when I have book spines digging into my back.”

“Ha ha.” Claude shook his head, mirth flickering across his face. “When did you get so sarcastic, Your Kingliness? I’m not sure if I like this new Dimitri who gives as good as he gets.”

The man in question chuckled. “You can thank years of dealing with Sylvain for that. I hope you can forgive my impertinence.” He dipped his head to place a swift kiss to Claude’s temple. The imprint of his lips tingled. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Dimitri left Claude’s side like a hound set afield, certain to come running home at day’s end. Although he spent most of his youth training alongside horses and wyverns, Claude had never owned a hunting dog. He was starting to see the appeal.

Steeling himself for the last leg of his plan, Claude approached the pair down the hall and shooed the overburdened guard away to return to their duties. He bowed to the general. “Farah, it’s good to see you again.”

Farah’s leather squeaked as she returned the bow. “You as well, Prince Claude.” Her gaze locked onto the prominent crimson twine that hadn’t been there yesterday. “I see you have been busy.”

“I have. We exchanged ties last night and revealed them to my family this morning,” Claude explained. A stupid, proud smile stretched across his face.

Farah’s expression stayed impassive. “I see. Congratulations. I hope the bond between you lasts a lifetime.”

“Thank you, but we both know that’s not why I asked for you today,” Claude replied. Speaking so bluntly grated on his nerves like dragging a blade over rock. “I’ve completed your trial. Are you going to uphold your end of the deal?”

“So quick. You are full of schemes, like the rest of this palace,” she muttered. It sounded like a complaint about westerners in general rather than him, but Claude curled his fingertips into his hip to calm his nerves all the same. Farah continued, “You are still too shrewd for my liking, but you've proved your courage as I asked. Yes. I will fight for you if you will help the east. And if you do not, I will take the throne from you myself.”

Claude’s sigh of relief disappeared behind his shout of exuberance. “Wonderful news! I look forward to working with you. And you’ll be thrilled to hear I’ve already set everything up. Our challenge is scheduled for tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow? Without speaking to me? You assumed I would agree,” she inferred.

“I assumed you were a woman of her word, yes.”

A thoughtful hum. “I suppose a man in your position must be a good judge of character and willing to take risks based on that judgment. I'm not sure if I like it. You’re lucky to have lasted this long. But as they say, better a lucky horse than a smart one when riding in the dark.” Farah extended her hand. “Tomorrow, then. Though I do have a word of warning for you.”

Claude shared a firm shake with her, dread descending on his shoulders. “A warning?”

“You were not the only one to speak with me about the crown,” she revealed, dropping his hand. “Salasi the Suncatcher appeared before me after the fights last night. He asked me not to help you. He seemed afraid that under your rule he would lose his job and the siblings he cares for would be left without support due to your feud. 

"Be warned, Prince Claude, a man desperate to save his family will do drastic things. And the men who love him will follow their commander against you. No king can last as an enemy of Almyra’s elite forces.”

Salasi was right to be nervous. Claude had indeed intended to strip him of his position as soon as he’d established his kinghood. A Fodlan hater had no place as the leader of a military force in a united world. 

But Salasi was a skilled warrior, one of the best, and his men adored him. Claude could not turn a blind eye to the family who relied on him, either. If he succeeded and Salasi had everything taken from him as he tried to do to Claude, what would his innocent siblings think of Claude? Of Fodlan?

Of course, he couldn’t allow Salasi’s behavior to continue either. Claude would face enough challenges as king without the Barbarossa's captain undermining his authority and sowing unrest among the people. Generations of people all over the world needed a reason to believe in open palms rather than closed fists when they looked beyond their borders, and it was up to Claude to find a way to make that happen, even with men like Salasi at hand.

“Already proving I chose a great advisor,” Claude said, though they’d discussed nothing of the sort in their arrangement to chase the throne. Farah let it slide. “Thanks for bringing it to my attention. I’ll think about how to handle Salasi when we win, alright? For now, you just focus on resting up. No matter how much he likes me, Nader isn’t the type to go down easy.”

If Nika had been there, she might have made a snarky comment about how with 'the Undefeated' and 'the Victorious' clashing, one of them wouldn’t live up to their title tomorrow. The general simply nodded. “I will uphold my end of our deal. Do not disappoint me, Prince Claude.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

It wasn’t as though he had any other choice. Still, the promise haunted him for the rest of his day, shaking his concentration and interrupting his meditation. Not being able to do anything about his future but wait was like sitting on a bag of wasps. Even if the sting didn’t carry through the burlap, there’s no way you could get comfortable with that crawling under your backside. So Claude would do what he did best. Distract himself until the hour came.

In Fodlan, men locked themselves in the cathedral to pray for victory when a life-changing battle was on the horizon. In Almyra, they assumed victory, but only in that they would survive until the next battle. 

As for Claude, he picked up a quill and began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi readers! For those who don't follow me on Twitter, I have a few notes for you:
> 
> 1) First and foremost, thank you to all the commenters, both those who've been here since the beginning and those just finding the series recently! Your words have been invaluable to me. My energy levels have been too low to respond individually but seeing your kindness and enthusiasm has kept me writing during quarantine, even if it's at a snail's pace. Thank you for bringing me a little joy in my inbox.
> 
> 2) This story is not dead. However, the update pace will be maintaining an 'as I am able to write' cadence for the foreseeable future. Between COVID-19 and the injustices being committed by leaders and police, my creative energies have been very low. With that said, I do have the full story mapped out, which means I do intend to finish it!
> 
> 3) An extra reminder given what is at the forefront of everyone's minds: this is meant to be escapist fiction exploring human themes. The resolution of matters regarding discrimination in this fic (or lack thereof) is not meant as a commentary on current events.
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and here's to hoping the next chapter comes a little faster.


	13. Favor and Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri goes in search of something for Claude with Felix's help. The two discuss what Felix should do after this trip is over.

Dimitri had learned to haggle on the streets of Fhirdiad. Not as a prince, for princes measured the cost of their transactions in favor rather than gold, but as a wanted man. A dead man, by most accounts.

He’d made it scarcely a week free of his bonds and mad with the grief of Dedue’s loss before someone took pity on his clumsy attempts to barter for food. Her name was Roe. Old enough to be his mother and twice as strict, the lavender haired lady with ruby-painted lips taught him a new type of survival. The cost of coin. The worth of a body away from the battlefield. How to frighten wicked men and use honest ones.

“Too kind,” she’d scolded, wiping his cheek where a mercenary had slugged him for helping a family free of charge. The attacker no longer had their fist. “Just like my son. I’ll tell you what I told him. If you wanna do good, you gotta root out the bad first. Otherwise, they’ll always get the first hit in.”

Dimitri had been more vicious after that. He learned what doors suspicion and ruthlessness could open for him. Didn’t let anyone get the drop on him. 

Perhaps that was why he had an easier time forgiving Claude’s more unscrupulous habits now than he had in his youth. He recognized that survival instinct. The bright sun running forever out of the reach of the moon, fearing if it did not stay one step ahead, its light might be snuffed out.

Dimitri wouldn’t dare dull Claude’s cleverness, but he wished that ever-churning mind could know rest. Right now, the Almyran prince needed all his strength and cunning to win his father’s title before the other schemers of his court stole it away from him. In that, Dimitri could not help him. 

However, he was not powerless. He could do what Faerghans had for generations when facing an impossible duel. Show Claude that they’d be together in spirit today, even if Dimitri had to watch from a distance.

It hadn’t been easy to sneak out to the market at dawn, especially with Claude sprawled atop their shared sheets, bearing the turmoil of burgeoning spring in his green eyes, but Dimitri managed. He wouldn’t be gone long, he had sworn. Pasar was just another city, and surely, with Dimitri’s knowledge of bartering and wayfinding after five years in exile, a secret shopping trip for a single item would be simple.

His friends would tease him for years to come about how wrong he was.

As it turned out, fighting through the bustle of Pasar’s market at opening hours without a guide was like a sailor trying to navigate a storm after dropping his map into the ocean. Vibrant colors and curved streets threw off Dimitri’s sense of direction. Although he could orient himself to the enormous palace spires in the center of the city, finding landmarks among the tightly packed stalls, ocean of bodies, and alleyways the people seemed to use like tiny veins to pop from one thoroughfare to the next was impossible. Dimitri would have been utterly lost in the maelstrom of Pasar shoppers if not for Felix leading the way. Unfortunately, a compass was useless without something to point at.

“You still haven’t made up your mind?” Felix grumbled as they passed the dozenth jewelry stand of the day. ‘Made with real gems’ it boasted, though Dimitri had seen enough precious stones in his lifetime to recognize glass fakes when he saw them.

He sighed, placing the bracelet back on the table despite the merchant’s promises to lower its price. “It has to be perfect, Felix.”

“It’s not even his tradition. He won’t care,” his advisor argued. Amber eyes flickered to a blacksmith’s collection of curved blades two booths over. “Just get him a weapon and be done with it.”

“You know that’s not how favors work.”

Felix scoffed, stalking towards a rack of swords with steel that had distinct striations upon its surface. They swirled in lazy twists down the blade’s length like a silver sea. It was a form of metallurgy unknown to Fodlan, and one Dimitri suspected they'd both like to study at length.

Another time, Dimitri would return with Felix and learn everything he could about these gorgeous weapons. Not to wage war but as a symbol of Faerghus’ newfound friendship with Almyra. And, selfishly, to add more than Claude’s generous gift of an Almyran spear to his personal collection.

Fingertips grazing the hilt of an oddly-shaped sword, Felix muttered, “Don't act so smug. Neither of us knows anything about giving favors."

That wasn't entirely true. Dimitri and his friends had often exchanged faux-favors as children. It was part of growing up, mimicking the rituals of their elders to learn how to uphold Faerghus traditions. However, most of their 'favors' had been pretty stones and flowers scavenged from the Fhirdiad's grounds rather than the kerchiefs and jewelry of the adults around them. 

One afternoon in Fraldarius, Dimitri had been chosen as the favor-giver for his and Felix's tournament of two while Glenn trained for a real tournament during the short summer months. Having recently seen Lady Cassandra receive a pretty flower before her last fight, Dimitri decided he needed to give something similar. He rode out into the forest to find a flower unique enough to suit a prince. 

Unfortunately, his lack of horticultural knowledge was his undoing. The beautiful, blue thistle-like flower he settled on turned out to be poison liontail. The oil of its leaves could burn even the hardiest skin, raising blisters under the summer sun within hours. 

The boys’ hands had been destroyed. It had taken a week of recovery and hovering by Rodrigue before the rashes seared onto their palms healed enough to hold anything without pain. Dimitri still had a small red mark at the juncture of his thumb from it. He was sure Felix did too.

A sly smile stretched Dimitri’s face. “I thought the  _ impression _ of the favor I gave you would last a lifetime.”

“If you keep cracking jokes, I’m going back without you,” Felix threatened idly.

“My apologies, Felix. I didn’t mean to make light of such a grievous injury.” Felix’s frown twitched, a sharper retort perched on his tongue. Dimitri held up a hand in surrender. “All joking aside, I have given favors before. If you recall, I had one prepared for Sylvain to commemorate his first tournament.”

“What I remember is you pouting because that idiot refused to take your kerchief,” Felix replied, placing the sword he was considering back on its rack.

Dimitri remembered that, too. The childish devastation he felt when his fiery-headed friend rebuffed him with a cheeky smile and wink, insisting that knights should save themselves for pretty ladies. He’d gotten quite the wallop from Margrave Gautier for turning down the favor of his crown prince afterward. Dimitri decided most favors weren’t worth the trouble after that.

The king sighed, “You may have a point, but I believe that had more to do with Sylvain than my gift. The cloak I gave Glenn was far better received.”

Dimitri choked on his next breath, realizing too late what name had fallen carelessly from his lips. 

He focused all his attention on the carvings along an axe’s shaft, trying to admire the sweep of flames flowing as one with the lines of wood grain. Once again, the king had dragged them both into a past Felix had no desire to revisit. His instinct was to apologize, make amends for not respecting Felix’s need to move on, but acknowledging what he said was liable to only make Felix angrier.

Beside him, the swordsman snorted. “It was received better by him, maybe. But Ingrid was so mad at you for trying to steal my brother that she wouldn’t talk to you for a month.”

Dimitri dared a glance in Felix’s direction. The other man was smirking fondly at a knife in his hands.

It seemed Dimitri underestimated his friend.

"It wasn't that bad," Dimitri protested, letting his fingertips wander from the axe. "She calmed down once she gave him a favor of her own." It had been one of the mint-green ribbons Ingrid always wore in pairs when she was young, removed from her pigtails and tied by her tiny, determined fingers into Glenn's hair.

Felix scoffed, "If you wanted to get him a ribbon, you should have bought one an hour ago."

"I can't give him a ribbon, he gave me a ribbon." Exasperation laced Dimitri's words. “If I were to give him cloth, I would want it to be something from Faerghus, but there is nothing suitable in my travel clothes. Ideally, I would make something. Still, without Mercedes’ instruction, I don’t think I’d be able to create anything worthy of his attention." Dimitri stared down the alley to the cornucopia of textiles, colors melding like a sea of wildflowers. "Perhaps I could do it with a guide. I know she's not from Pasar, but I'm sure Nika would help us if you asked."

Felix shoved the knife he was holding back onto the table with enough force to rattle it. "We can do it without her. It's a favor, not a wedding ring."

"Felix, don't feel as though you need to hide your relationship for my sake."

"Shut up, boar!" Felix snapped. His mouth clicked shut. He continued through gritted teeth, "Our only relationship is her crowding everything I do. She's like one of those trollops who hang all over Sylvain."

The king’s voice fell into the cadence of a lecture, "I doubt that. She must be a capable woman to have General Farah’s ear. You shouldn't write her off so quickly. I'm sure she thinks you're charming, being a capable warrior from a place she’s never seen before."

"I have no interest in being charming," Felix complained. "She kept me away from training all night last night." Dimitri's eyebrows raised. Felix glowered, sensing the lewd suggestion as if his king had announced in the middle of court. "Shut up. We were studying. She wanted to learn to write like we do in Fodlan. It was annoying."

Dimitri squashed the urge to point out that he'd only once seen Felix agree to spend time with a girl rather than spar, and they were now close confidants, if not more.

"I only did it because one of us needs to be an ambassador,” Felix continued. He poked a finger against Dimitri’s chest. “ _ You _ are too busy following Claude around to do your job."

"We're working on diplomatic relations,” Dimitri reasoned. He cringed at how juvenile it sounded leaving his mouth.

“You’re acting like a lovestruck fool," Felix scoffed. "Did you even think to ask him about anything before you said yes to becoming his blood brother?” 

Dimitri didn’t know how to explain that he didn’t care about the political ramifications. He trusted Claude wouldn’t lead him astray. Their paths might have differed, but their goals had been united since they were boys with ideals too big for their young shoulders to carry.

“We have an understanding,” Dimitri stated, though everyone who’d met Claude knew understanding him was as likely as catching a wild horse with your bare hands. “Do you not approve of our relations?”

“Don't put words in my mouth,” Felix snapped.

Dimitri held back a sigh. It was a relief to hear the approval, in so much as Felix could approve anything while angry, but the king wasn’t sure how to get his advisor to elaborate on what he wanted. 

“I see,” Dimitri lied. “Well, I’m impressed to see you getting involved in political intrigue for once, Felix.”

The swordsman seethed. He began flipping another blade in his palms. “I'm not going to let Faerghus become puppet nation again because, like your uncle, you think more with your nethers than your brain.”

“Then you needn’t worry. It isn't as though we've consummated our…”

“ _ Stop _ .” Felix brandished the sword he’d been evaluating at his king. “I don’t want to know. I'm not some commoner obsessed with the king's bedroom habits. Or Sylvain.” 

Behind him, the shopkeep threw his hands up, yelling something about no violence in the market. Felix reluctantly set the blade back down. 

Under his breath, he muttered, “This sort of thing is exactly why I can't leave Faerghus."

Unease jolted through Dimitri, stronger than he felt with that weapon in his face. 

Technically, it wasn’t a surprise to think Felix might leave. He had been vocal about his frustration with Kingdom values for over a decade. Any other man Dimitri would have expected to defect years ago. 

But this was Felix. A son of the north. No matter how he complained, loyalty flowed as sure as Fraldarius blood through his veins. Even if he would be happier elsewhere, Felix's nature wouldn’t allow him to abandon his post, much less give voice to it.

Maybe the war had changed them all in ways Dimitri hadn’t considered. For the better, he hoped.

"Leave Faerghus? You were planning to?" he asked.

"No,” Felix snapped, too violent for the truth. He turned his face to avoid Dimitri’s lance-sharp stare. "Fine. Maybe. I was thinking about how many good opponents there are here. And their food isn't half-bad either." He shook his head as though it might dislodge the softness clinging to his voice like a curious kitten. “But it's too hot out and the queen is insufferable. And you need me to keep you from promising away our kingdom's treasury to the first foreign delegate who smiles at you like you hung the sun."

_ You think Claude looks at me like that?  _ Dimitri wanted to ask.

What he said instead was, "Felix....would you like to stay in Almyra?"

"Are you hard of hearing or just stupid?" the swordsman snarled. He still wouldn’t meet Dimitri’s eye.

Their relationship wasn’t what it used to be, but even Dimitri could read the print Felix had stamped in bold letters between the lines of his words. Felix wouldn’t ask for leave. Nor would he accept it if given plainly. His pride as a soldier and a man who loved his people could not allow it.

Which meant it fell to the king to find a clever way forward. Dimitri hoped he’d learned enough from Claude’s brilliance to pull off a small scheme of his own.

"My apologies if I've misunderstood, but it sounds like you're enjoying your time here.” Dimitri kept his voice blase, though he suspected Felix saw through it. That was fine, his plan rode on preserving Felix’s pride, not fooling him. The king swept his hand out towards the bustling marketplace around them. “You have my leave to extend your stay if you'd like. Getting another boat from Lady Judith shouldn't be too much trouble."

Felix’s arms crossed. "I'm not letting you leave me behind and dig yourself a hole you can't get out of in Faerghus. Someone needs to keep an eye on that fatuous cad you call a foreign advisor and my old man."

"Sylvain and Rodrigue have been managing Faerghus fine on their own while we’ve been away.”

“How do you know that?” Felix sneered, eyes flashing. “Because Claude told you? And you believe everything he says without question?”

That was an argument that Dimitri could not win, so he sidestepped the issue like he might one of the man’s lightning-fast sword strikes. “If it would make you happy to stay, you should. You deserve it, Felix."

"I'm not going to leave Faerghus, so stop talking about it."

_ There. Right into his trap. _

"Then what if you didn't have to leave the Kingdom to stay here?" Dimitri challenged.

Felix’s mouth slammed shut. His fingers clenched an unclenched above a sword hilt under the shopkeeper’s distrustful gaze. "Don't speak in riddles,” he demanded. “You're not as good at it as Claude."

"If Claude takes the throne, we will need an ambassador to build relations with Almyra," the king laid out slowly. "I think you'd be a good fit for the role if you're willing, Felix."

"Fighting is what I'm good at. Not talking."

Dimitri laughed. "And Almyran politics involves a lot of fighting. You earned us a name here the first day by punching a guard. This place is no friend to outsiders, yet I have witnessed their warriors welcoming you as a brother because of how you hold yourself in battle." The delighted smile of a child who’d found the missing piece of their puzzle spread across his face. "Forgive me for my brashness, but I think you could be happy here, Felix. And if you want to continue giving your counsel to the Kingdom, to me, then I would never refuse you. In fact, I insist on it."

Felix’s gaze went distant, staring at the bustling city in the same way Claude used to stare at the sea. Full of longing with a glimmer of fear. Dreaming of a home he wasn’t sure existed, someplace unknowable to a man who’d been sworn to his country since birth.

Dimitri waited. Felix turned away, then stilled, tense with the same crackling excitement he had before abusing an opponent’s opening in a spar. 

He never got the chance to answer because, at that moment, something caught Felix's eye. He nodded towards a distant booth.

"What about that one? The brooch with the lion and moon?"

It took Dimitri several seconds to see what his advisor was indicating. The brooch in question was not on a display. In fact, the table it was on looked more like a fisherman’s shack with its drab colors and crumbling wood frame than a typical market stall decorated in an explosion of hues to entice visitors. An old brooch was holding the worn red cloth acting as an overhang away from a modest plate of bread being sold. 

Within the silver moon of its border curled a great lion, three gemstones set above its head. Dimitri couldn’t tell the color of the stones from so far away. The piece had tarnished from decades of neglect and heavy use. It was hardly the sort of thing a king would normally give another king.

Yet the idea of giving Claude something that was once gorgeous, had grown weathered through age and mistreatment, then was restored to a new level of beauty through tender care felt like a poignant reflection of their relationship. That it was shaped like a lion and a moon was simply an extra bit of fortune.

This was the answer Dimitri had been searching for.

He walked straight for the booth, noting that the crowd thinned as he got closer. The more run-down appearance of this stretch suggested they’d found one of the poorer districts of the market. All the more reason to patronize them if they were willing to sell. 

He withheld a chuckle at how Felix gripped the sword at his belt. He never did like so many eyes on him when he wasn’t fighting, and now that they’d emerged from the crowd, everyone was watching the outsiders with interest.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Is this brooch for sale?” Dimitri asked, pointing towards the old thing. Close up he could tell the settings above the lion’s head had once been some sort of clear gem, but the grimy facets allowed no fire to sparkle in the stones.

The Almyran woman huffed. “We sell bread.”

“I can see that, and I will happily buy your bread as well,” even if it looked like the hardtack he’d survived on in the slums of Fhirdiad, “but I am primarily interested in that old brooch. If you would part with it, name your price and it will be yours.”

She looked Dimitri head to toe, weighing her distrust against the likely size of his pockets. “It’s a family heirloom. Priceless,” she said. If Dimitri hadn’t heard this common lie while haggling in Faerghus to drive a higher price, he might have felt bad about insisting on buying. “But I’ve also got a family to feed. You buy out my booth, and you can have the brooch.”

An utterly absurd deal. Felix looked like wanted to lop her head off for the insult, but Dimitri was already handing over a bag of gold large enough to be coveted by all the pickpockets in Pasar. 

“You have a deal,” he said. “We will take the basket of bread and the brooch, please. Thank you very much for parting with something so precious.”

Felix grumbled under his breath, “Really? You know a trinket isn’t worth that much.”

“It is to me,” Dimitri replied.

Felix didn’t argue further. Perhaps because the woman was now trying to shove a basket of bread into his arms. He pushed the lot towards Dimitri. “You can at least carry your own weight if you’re going to waste the treasury on an ancient knickknack.”

Chuckling, Dimitri pocketed the brooch with profound thanks and took the bread off Felix’s hands before it could be thrown at him. “Of course, Felix. Though perhaps I should be concerned that my chief military advisor has such poor stamina he can’t carry a basket of bread and his sword at the same time.”

“Save your complaints about laziness for Sylvain,” Felix huffed, but he was smirking.

With prize in hand, the way back to the palace was easier to find. Its central spires were visible from almost anywhere within the city walls. It would have been a short trip, but they took another detour to drop the basket of bread near the poor quarter Claude had shown them. By the time they arrived back at their rooms, it was early afternoon.

Dimitri lamented that there would be no time to polish the favor before handing it over. Claude would no doubt have to prepare a strategy with General Farah before the challenge, and he’d already been waiting the better part of a day for their return.

They made it as far as the north-east hall before the queen, strolling around the grounds with sweat on her brow from a morning contest, waved her hand with a fresh piece of fruit in it to stop them.

“Queen Isabella. Always a pleasure,” Dimitri greeted, bowing deeply. Felix nodded beside him. “We’re looking for your son.”

“I was wondering what was taking you so long. The whole ‘favors before a tournament’ thing is still a Kingdom tradition, I assume.” She bit a chunk out of the fruit’s flesh with a grin. “You know, Fraldarius, I gave your dad a favor once back in the day. I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel.”

Felix’s lip twisted. “You tried to court my old man?”

“Oh no. Just thought it would be funny to see him struggle to turn me down in front of his class. The rumors lasted almost a full week before he lost his temper and demanded I tell everyone we weren’t dating.” Bella’s laugh sparkled cruelly. “I do miss that tempestuous ass sometimes. It’s a shame I can’t cross the border easily to talk to him.”

“Hopefully, once today is done, your son will help to correct that,” came Dimitri’s polite response. “Speaking of which, do you know where we might find him?”

The queen waved vaguely over her shoulder with the fruit. “Speaking with Cyrus. Some sort of father-son bonding before they fight to the death, per Almyran tradition, from my understanding. You’ll have to wait until they’re done if you want to give him your favor.” She tilted her head to give him a once over. “What did you get him anyway?”

It was embarrassing to show the queen an old brooch he hadn’t been able to shine with his silver polish yet, but refusing someone as tenacious as Claude’s mother would be a waste of time, and Dimitri had none to spare today. He extended the trinket in gentle fingers. “I know it is untraditional but…”

Isabella’s brows scrunched. Surprise, curiosity, and recognition flashed over her face as she turned the piece over in her hand. She rubbed a finger against a small inscription on the back. “Do you know what you have here?”

“Ah...a brooch?” Dimitri mumbled, feeling like he was back in Hanneman’s class, struggling to learn Reason.

Bella snorted and took another bite of her snack. “It’s good to know at least one of your eyes still works. Do you know what  _ kind _ of brooch?”

“It was just some worthless family heirloom,” Felix interjected. “He bought it off of a breadmaker.”

“I guess Ardashir the Inevitable was as bad of a gambler as they say, then,” the queen hummed. She tossed the tarnished silver lion back to its owner.

Dimitri recognized that name from his history books on Almyra. King Ardashir was a voyager. He’d been the first to cross the eastern ocean, conquering many small islands in his path, and making a name for himself in two ways. First, being able to find his home without a map or compass as long as he could see the stars. Second, for gambling away half of the crown’s fortune while at sea.

“You must have done your homework. You’ve got that same nervous tick around your eyes as your father did whenever he put something important together,” Isabella laughed. “I’m not an expert at this sort of thing, but I’d recognize the lion and mark on the back of that brooch anywhere. That’s made for royalty.”

“Are you certain?” The queen gave him a flat look and Dimitri cleared his throat. “I mean to say...that’s remarkable! What are the odds? You don’t think it’s inappropriate?”

“Please, Claude loves that historic junk. I can’t think of something more fit as a gift for a future Almyran king than another king’s jewelry. Unless it was one not caked in grime.”

“I had no intention of…” Dimitri started.

“Clean it. You have time,” Isabella ordered him like a mother rather than a fellow monarch. Dimitri felt compelled to obey.

“Yes, of course. If you’ll excuse us, then, we need to return to our quarters.”

She waved and continued on her way as the two men turned back the way they came, soft curls bobbing in time with her steps. Dimitri, on the other hand, rushed towards his room. Felix was right on his heels, muttering something unpleasant that couldn’t be heard over his two steps to every one of his king’s long strides.

Dimitri flung the door open to his Almyran quarters and promptly slipped.

Surprised by the abrupt stop, Felix had to shove at Dimitri’s back to keep him upright as the king’s boot tried to make off for the ceiling. Thank the goddess for Felix’s crest-enhanced strength. The swordsman released a colorful curse, but the king was in one piece and already distracted. His eye fell to the trap that had baited him.

A letter slipped beneath his door.

Dimitri plucked it from the floor and gestured for Felix to come inside. His advisor closed the door as Dimitri began to read the tight, angry letters scrawled on the note that had been left for him.

"What is it?" Felix casually leaned over to see the script for himself.

"A letter from General Farah." Dimitri's eye widened as he continued down the page. "No...a challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, quarantine has not been kind to my schedule or writing, but I am still chipping away at this whenever I have the ability. Thank you all for reading, kudos, sharing your comments, and being patient with the extremely slow updates!

**Author's Note:**

> Want to hear more about EM's lore, fic news, my ramblings about FE3H, or ask a question that doesn't make sense in a comment? 
> 
> Feel free to follow me at @shadowshrike2 on Twitter. You can find my EM tag and the site for Q&A through my profile.


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